Keeping Up Appearances
by charlock221
Summary: "This case, John, is not one I would wish to repeat. I don't like constantly being thrown by new revelations... and people. Victor Trevor was – and still is, now – charming and courteous and fiery, but he's also dangerous and spontaneous, which isn't always a good thing. And I know you're grieving, John, but I need to focus and solve this, if only to put myself at ease."
1. Chapter 1

"_I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but I'm afraid we were unable to save your wife."_

_ John closed his eyes and put his head in his hands, his fingers tugging at his hair as he fought to keep tears back. Within the space of an hour he'd lost both his wife and his daughter._

_ The doctor in front of him shifted. "The operation was always going to be risky, as I'm sure you know, but we did everything we could–"_

_ "It's okay." John rasped, eyes still closed and head bent. "I knew the risks and that the likelihood of survival was low. Thank you for trying." He looked up eventually and the doctor smiled sympathetically._

_ "Of course." he said. "If you need anything else, just ask. Can I call anyone for you?"_

_ "No, it's fine." John murmured. "I'll be fine."_

_ The doctor didn't seem convinced, but he didn't object. With a stiff nod, he turned and walked away._

_ John let out a deep breath and sat back in his seat to stare at the ceiling, tears brimming but refusing to fall. His emotions were all over the place, he didn't know what to feel. Grief, at the loss of losing his family, or anger at the unfairness of it all. He wanted to shout, scream until his throat ran hoarse or sob continuously until he grew exhausted, but he knew it wasn't the place. Instead, shaking fingers drew out his phone and he dialled one of the two numbers he had memorised. It was a moment until someone answered._

_ "John?"_

_ "Sherlock," he choked. "Mary, she's d-dead." He heard his friend curse on the other end of the line. "And... and our baby, she d-didn't–"_

_ "Alright, alright." Sherlock interrupted, knowing what he was trying to say. "Are you at the hospital?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "Okay, I'm coming now, don't go anywhere."_

_ The detective hung up and John hiccoughed, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. He didn't know what to do; he wished this was all a dream and he'd wake up any second..._

John awoke with a gasp and half raised himself in his bed, looking about their – _his_ – dark room and taking in deep breaths, calming himself down. After a few moments he flopped back onto the bed and scrubbed his eyes, brushing away the memories and stray tears that had surfaced during his sleep. He exhaled heavily and stared aimlessly at the ceiling.

It had been three days since his wife had died in childbirth, consequently losing their child as well. John had been on autopilot for the majority of the days, ambling about his empty house without any actual idea of what to do. His work had given him a few weeks off to grieve, but he almost wished they hadn't, so that at least he'd be distracted. Anything to get him out of this lifeless routine.

John rubbed his hands over his face as he tried to think of anything other than his deceased family. Not that he wanted to forget them, but right now he was shattered and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and stave off reality until the morning. His arms dropped to his sides and he sighed, his eyelids drooping and he wondered if the third round of sleep was going to be as eventful as the past two.

His eyes had been closed for no more than ten seconds when he heard a crash downstairs.

He bolted upright and swung his legs over the side of his bed, Mary and his child completely forgotten. His feet silently touched the floor as he rose and quietly opened the bedside drawer to retrieve his gun, checking to see that it was loaded. Then he padded over to the door and slowly pulled it open.

John paused for a second, straining for any noise downstairs. It was silent. The doctor entertained the idea that something had just happened to fall over and nobody was there, but when he heard one of the stairs creak below he decided it wasn't a draught. The footsteps were making their way up towards him and he swiftly stood behind his open door, clutching his gun and staring at his room, waiting for the intruder to step in.

There was a pause as the stranger stopped on the landing, most likely peering into John's room. They took a few steps forward and stopped again, seeming almost hesitant. John willed the person to come in further so he could slam the door and surprise them.

As if hearing his request, the impostor moved closer and John was able to see their outline. Being dark, he couldn't note any prominent features, but he was immediately able to point out weak points that would take down the intruder within seconds.

John counted to five in his head before he took action. He slammed the door loudly, startling the stranger and causing them to turn. Before they could attack, though, John whipped his gun across the man's face, making him stumble backwards and fall to one knee. The doctor kicked him onto his back and followed, pinning his arms down with his hands, his gun resting above the stranger's head.

John took one look at the man below him and then swore loudly.

"Jesus _Christ_, Sherlock!" he shouted, getting up and hauling the lanky detective up afterwards. He switched on the light and turned to glare at Sherlock, his arms folded and face showing no remorse for the gash on his cheek, which Sherlock had his hand pressed to.

"John." the younger man acknowledged.

"What are you doing in ou-my house?" John demanded, hoping Sherlock didn't notice the slip. He did, of course.

"I left my phone here earlier and I returned to retrieve it." the detective replied calmly.

"And it couldn't have waited until the morning?" the doctor growled.

"No." Sherlock answered.

John twisted and walked downstairs, hearing Sherlock trot down the steps behind him. "What did you break?" he asked.

"It was an accident. You moved it." Sherlock replied.

"What was it?"

"How am I supposed to be able to get about quietly if you move things all the time?"

John stopped at the bottom of the steps and spun to face the sullen detective. Despite the now prominent height difference – what with Sherlock being two steps above him – John was still able to look menacing as he glowered up at Sherlock.

"Do not test me, Sherlock Holmes." he snarled, pointing a finger at the brunette. "I have had a bad night and am in no mood to deal with your crap. Now tell me, what did you break?"

Sherlock glanced down at his feet and linked his hands in front of him. John was about to tell him to cut the innocent act when Sherlock cleared his throat, making it clear he was actually going to say something.

"The vase Mary bought fell when I knocked the table. It smashed upon impact with the floor." he muttered, not meeting John's eyes.

The doctor's lips tightened and he breathed deeply through his nose, willing himself not to lose control.

"Right." he said curtly, fighting his temper. "Will you go now?"

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something but he decided against it and instead he nodded once. He turned down the hallway towards the front door without mentioning his phone, something which surprised John. The door opened and Sherlock stepped out into the cold night air without so much as a goodbye towards John, closing the door moments later.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, ignoring the voice in his head that was begging him to just go back to sleep. Instead, he stopped in the doorway to the living room and switched on the light, dreading the mess he was going to see.

And like Sherlock had said, Mary's favourite vase was lying in pieces on the floor next to the coffee table. He doubted he'd be able to get it repaired, and John also ignored the other voice that was demanding he head to Baker Street and take a piece out of Sherlock. He quashed those thoughts down, telling himself that Sherlock hadn't done it deliberately, however many times he may have expressed his distaste for the vase in the past.

The doctor moved further into the room and gently scooped the china pieces into his hands, carried them into the kitchen, wrapped them in a paper towel and then – with a regretful look – threw them into the bin. He wasted no time mourning over the accident, deeming it best to just go back to bed and sort through this tomorrow when he had a clearer head.

Moving back through the living room, though, something caught his eye. Or rather, the absence of something caught his eye. Sherlock's phone wasn't here. The detective couldn't have picked it up because he would have told John earlier, knowing that the doctor would look for it in the morning. It wouldn't be in a difficult hiding place because Sherlock barely moved from the sofa earlier today. And now that he thought about it, John didn't think Sherlock even took his phone out from his pocket when he was here during the day. Meaning...

He opened the front door and wasn't in the least surprised to see Sherlock tumble backwards, having been leaning against the door moments ago. The detective's grey eyes looked up at him from the floor and John crossed his arms.

"What did you do?" he asked shortly.

"I blew the microwave up." the younger Holmes mumbled. "Mrs Hudson chucked me out."

John rolled his eyes. "For God's sake." he muttered, moving away from the door and heading towards the kitchen. He heard Sherlock get up and close the door before he appeared next to John, twisting his fingers and looking apprehensive.

"You're hovering." John said, switching on the kettle. Sherlock took a step back. "Go sit down, Sherlock."

The detective obliged and perched on the sofa, looking about the room with a pretend expression of interest on his face. John returned with two cups of tea and settled down next to him, handing over one of the cups.

Sherlock brought the drink up to his lips. "Sorry about the vase." he murmured, taking a sip.

John sighed. "Forget it." he said. "It was only a vase. S'not like Mary's going to haunt me for it, anyway."

"She didn't like it, you know." Sherlock said.

"What? Why would she keep it if she didn't like it?" John asked.

"She thought you liked it."

"I hated it."

"I know."

There was a beat of silence before John chuckled quietly, and Sherlock allowed a small smile.

"So nobody liked it but we were all too polite to say so." John said.

"I said so."

"Yeah, but you were the only one who seemed to think you had a right to voice your opinion on our interior design. We just started to zone you out once you criticised the carpet." John smiled, though it wavered slightly.

"It's a horrible colour."

"I like it."

"Well you would." Sherlock muttered petulantly into his tea.

Minutes passed in a comfortable silence, before John looked across at Sherlock. "So Mrs Hudson threw you out after you blew up the microwave in the middle of the night and you... broke into our home? You couldn't have just knocked?" he asked with a small smile.

Sherlock shrugged indifferently. "I didn't want to disturb you." he said.

"Where were you planning on sleeping?"

Sherlock frowned slightly, as if the question was a stupid one. "I wasn't going to sleep." he answered.

"Of course you weren't." John sighed, before patting Sherlock's leg. "Well, I'll prepare the spare room and you can – scratch that, you _will_ – sleep there tonight." He got to his feet and turned to face Sherlock, who had a scowl on his face.

"I'm not tired." he said.

"I don't care." John replied. "You broke into our home, you do as I say. So get up, we'll clean that gash and then you're going to bed."

Sherlock bit his lip, clearly wanting to say something but deciding it would most probably be detrimental to his health. John smiled smugly and stepped aside, gesturing to the bathroom. Sherlock huffed dramatically before slinking down the corridor, John not far behind him.

Seated on the lid of the toilet, Sherlock sat silently as John dabbed at the blood of his cheek.

"Remind me again why you thought it would be a good idea to creep up to my room, rather than let me know you were there?"

"I was hoping the crash from the vase had not awoken you, and so I went to check to see if you were still asleep. It seemed I was wrong." He winced when John applied antiseptic.

"It was your own fault, Sherlock. You know I sleep lightly, of course that was going to wake me up." he said.

"You were awake already." Sherlock muttered, and John fell silent as he continued his work.

When John finished cleaning the detective's gash, he rose from his kneeling position and chucked the wipes in the bin, before heading into the spare room, pulling the duvet out from the wardrobe along with a pillow. He knew Sherlock had shuffled into the room behind him, and when he turned the detective was lying flat out on the bed in a crucified position. John tossed the pillow on his face before spreading the duvet out and throwing that on top of him too, so that only his erratic curls were visible.

John reached under the duvet and toed off the detective's shoes, smiling slightly when the sock-clad toes wiggled in the open air.

"Why won't you come back to Baker Street?" The question was muffled and John's smile fell off his face when he heard.

"I can't." he replied.

Sherlock sat up, the duvet falling around his waist and the pillow tumbling to the floor. "Why not? You're unhappy here."

"It's not that easy, Sherlock." John said gently. "I can't just move on like that." He snapped his fingers to make his point.

"I don't see why not."

John sighed and looked away, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "I know you don't understand, Sherlock, and I'm not going to lecture you on the different ways in which people grieve, but you need to at least accept that I'm not ready to move on just yet. Maybe one day I'll move back with you, but not today, I'm sorry."

"Alright." Sherlock mumbled, and flopped backwards to lie down. John sighed and got to his feet, watching as Sherlock drew the duvet up to his chin.

"Please don't sleep in your clothes." John said. He was ignored.

"Fine. G'night, Sherlock." He left the room, closing the door softly behind him, and then made his way down the corridor to his own room, ready to face his demons for another hour or so.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

It was five in the morning when John woke up the next day. Yawning, he fixed himself a cup of tea and padded into the living room, settling down on the couch. He flicked on the TV and turned the volume down, listening to the news as he sipped from his drink. Despite the early hour, John was surprised Sherlock wasn't up and about. But then, he supposed, if the detective really hadn't slept for a few days it was to be expected that he'd crash and not emerge from the bedroom for a good while.

Being a Sunday, John had the day off work and was pondering what to do for the day. He'd have to call Mary's friends about the funeral at some point, and also go through his wife's things sooner or later, and he'd already been putting both tasks off for a fortnight. Looking about the room now he could spot her belongings, bar one vase. He knew, though, that as soon as he started rifling through her things he was going to get upset, and he'd only just reached the point where thinking about Mary wouldn't leave him tearful. He'll go through her things another time, then. Not today. And her friends could be spoken to another time as well. No need to speak to them today.

He sat with his feet propped on the coffee table and staring into his tea for another hour. He didn't move when Sherlock shuffled into the room and plopped down next to him, scoffing at the news. The detective reached across him for the remote and began the crusade of looking for something bearable to watch.

It was twenty minutes later when Sherlock finally realised the doctor beside him had been sat stock still without even twitching. He frowned at John and nudged him in the side.

"Pound for your thought?" he asked, and John returned the frown, still not looking at Sherlock.

"It's 'penny'." he said. "Penny for your thoughts."

Sherlock shrugged, not particularly fussed about how he should've said it. "What are you thinking about?" he asked instead, knowing John preferred to tell him things rather than have Sherlock deduce it.

"Things." came the monosyllabic answer.

"Mary?" Sherlock ventured quietly. "And your daughter?"

"Yeah." John replied, just as softly.

"I see."

The doctor hummed quietly, then looked over to Sherlock. "Do you want some tea?" he asked, rising to his feet. The younger man grunted an answer, his phone suddenly providing a distraction and apparently preventing him from giving a proper response.

When the tea was made, John placed it on the table near Sherlock and then headed upstairs to get dressed. Jogging back down the stairs ten minutes later, the detective was lying horizontal on the sofa with his face pressed into the cushions. John rolled his eyes and lifted Sherlock's legs so he could sit, before placing them down on his lap. He sighed and looked about the room.

"The funeral's at the end of the week." he stated quietly. "If you wanted to come."

Sherlock twisted his head to look at the doctor. "Can I come?" he asked tentatively.

John shrugged half-heartedly, still staring ahead. "S'up to you. You don't have to but it'd be nice to have you there."

The detective nodded thoughtfully. "I've got a case." he said suddenly.

John frowned at the abrupt change of subject but didn't comment on it. "Oh?" he said instead.

"In Cambridge."

"Cambridge?"

"Yes. It seems the police there are even more inept than those at Scotland Yard."

John rolled his eyes. "So what's the case?"

He could have been wrong, but it seemed as though the detective hesitated before he answered. "Gloria Scott. Murdered."

"Who was she?"

"A lecturer at the university. Taught philosophy."

"How did she die?"

"Stabbed in the library, the police tell me. She was found by the librarian."

"You're taking the case, then?" John asked, looking across at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've nothing else on."

The doctor smiled slightly. "A change of scenery will do you good." he said.

Sherlock hummed in response, then asked in a somewhat quieter tone, "Will you come with me?"

John sighed and looked away. He had known Sherlock was going to ask, but a small part of him hoped his friend would keep quiet.

"I have to stay here, Sherlock, you know I do." he said gently.

"A change of scenery would do _you_ good, too." Sherlock mumbled.

John breathed a laugh. "Yes, it probably would, but I've got too much to do. The funeral's in a few days, and there's stuff I still need to sort out, I'm sorry."

Indifference replaced Sherlock's pout. "No need to apologise, I was merely suggesting. You're not vital, anyhow."

John frowned slightly. "Cheers." he muttered.

The detective climbed to his feet and began to hunt for his shoes. "I'm catching a train to Cambridge this morning, so I must go." he said, spinning and searching the floor.

John also got up. "Oh, okay. Your shoes are in the hallway, along with your coat."

Sherlock nodded and left the room. John followed him after a moment and went to the front door, unlocking it and pulling it open as the detective brushed past and stepped outside in the rain.

"Do you know how long you'll be away?" John asked, crossing his arms in a futile attempt to block out the cold weather and hovering in the doorway so that he wouldn't get wet.

"It's not possible to say," Sherlock replied from the path, ignoring the weather and keeping his eyes on the road as he waited for a cab. "I should be back within the week, though, if my estimation of the police's efficiency is correct." He turned to John as a taxi pulled up. "Last chance."

"I can't, I'm sorry." the doctor answered sincerely. "I wish I could."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine. See you later." He climbed in the cab and the vehicle drove away seconds later. John sighed again and stepped back inside, thankful for the warm temperature.

He spent the next few hours methodically carrying out his morning routine, before plopping down in front of the TV and staring mindlessly at whatever was on, thoughts elsewhere. He suddenly remembered Sherlock's reason for staying last night, and he pulled out his phone to call Mrs. Hudson.

"John?" she answered, after a few rings.

"Yeah, hi Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, hello dear. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks." John winced at the dull pleasantries that they exchanged. He'd had to endure them for the past week with every sympathy call he received, and he hated it.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I was just calling to ask about the microwave Sherlock blew up yesterday. The damage wasn't too great, was it? I almost feel like I should apologise on his behalf, knowing how inconsiderate of things he is."

"Microwave?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded confused on the other end of the line. "Sherlock hasn't blown anything up. At least, not as far as I know. Oh, I bet he has, the wretch." He could hear her climbing the stairs to 221B, but he was barely paying attention. Sherlock hadn't blown the microwave up? Then why had Mrs. Hudson thrown him out? Although actually, going by the sound of it, Mrs. Hudson had done nothing of the sort.

"No, dear, nothing's damaged up here." The landlady's voice shook him out of his reverie.

"Oh, okay." he said faintly. "And you didn't throw him out last night?"

"Why ever would I do that? As far as I was aware, Sherlock left for a case last night. Had to catch a train. Why, what's the matter?" Her voice began to grow concerned.

"Nothing, nothing's the matter, Mrs. Hudson, I just needed to clear something up. Okay, bye." He hung up without giving the elder woman a chance to respond.

So Sherlock was supposed to have left for Cambridge last night? Why did he stop by John's, then? He hadn't left his phone, he hadn't blown up the microwave, what other possible reason was there for coming in the middle of the night?

The brief idea that perhaps Sherlock had come purely to check on John crossed his mind, but he dismissed it without a second thought.

* * *

The journey to Cambridge was halfway through when Sherlock felt his phone vibrate. Drawing his gaze away from the scenery outside, he rifled in his pocket and answered his mobile without bothering to check caller ID.

"Sherlock Holmes." he rumbled.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's Victor. Victor Trevor?"

Sherlock froze. Victor Trevor was a name he had not heard in a very long time, not since his university days. He quashed down the memories that threatened to rise and instead fought to remember how to use his voice again.

"How did you get this number?" he asked.

There was a burst of laughter from the other end of the line. "I got it from the police." The voice was amused as he spoke. "When do you arrive?"

"Arrive? At Cambridge?"

"Yes, at Cambridge, where else? I thought I'd pick you up at the station."

"_You're_ at Cambridge?"

"God, it's like talking to a wall, I swear. Age really hasn't helped your intellect, has it?" Victor muttered, though it was good-natured. Sherlock still bristled.

Victor continued, "I work at the university, that's how I found out you were coming."

Finally thankful for no longer being completely clueless, Sherlock replied, "You know about Gloria Scott's death?"

There was a tone of remorse when Victor answered. "Yes, God rest her. Anyway, you're not averse to meeting me at the station?"

Sherlock pursed his lips before deciding there really wasn't going to be a way to get out of it if Victor wanted to do it so much. That was always the way with Victor.

"Yes, I'll see you there." he said eventually.

"Great, see you in a bit." Victor hung up, and Sherlock put away his phone, looking back out the window. Thoughts of he and Victor during university rose to the forefront of his mind, and he tried to recall everything he knew about the other man. Vain, headstrong, intelligent, charismatic; those were but a few aspects of Victor's striking personality. Sherlock remembered clearly his own relief at meeting another individual that was on his level. He didn't have to bother dumbing things down or trying to restrain his frustration; with Victor, it had been so easy.

Sherlock spent the remainder of the train ride reflecting on his university experience, before inevitably he thought about the not-so-good aspects of Victor. Resolutely squashing those thoughts, Sherlock rose as soon as the train stopped.

The train station was relatively quiet when Sherlock emerged, his eyes darting about the place quickly as he entertained the thought that maybe he could slip away without Victor Trevor noticing him.

"Sherlock! God, you haven't changed a bit!"

Damn.

The detective spun to see Victor Trevor striding towards him, dressed neatly in a tweed jacket and dark jeans. A yellow pullover was hidden partially by the jacket and on anyone else the outfit would have looked horrendous, but of course Victor managed to pull it off.

"Victor. Good to see you." he lied, forcing a tight smile and shaking the man's offered hand.

"Likewise." Victor chuckled deeply, brown eyes sparkling with mirth. "How've you been?"

"Fine." he stated, looking about the station.

"Still not one for words, hmm? Fine, but you must let me buy you lunch so we can catch up."

Sherlock couldn't think of anything he'd rather not do. "Perhaps another time. I'm rather busy at the moment." he said, linking his hands behind his back.

Victor nodded. "'Course, yeah, the murder. I'd forgotten."

Sherlock found it difficult to believe Victor had forgotten about a murder that had occurred yesterday evening but he decided not to dwell on it.

"Yes, the case." he agreed. "Rather pressing, so I must be off." He provided another tight smile and turned to go when Victor grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"At least let me drive you to wherever you need to be. We can chat during the journey."

Wonderful. Sherlock held back a sigh as he looked back at Victor and decided there really wasn't anything he could do to be rid of him. "Thank you." He decided to say instead. "If you could drop me off at my hotel I'd be grateful."

"Yeah, sure. Let me grab your bag." Victor leant forward and picked up the travel bag before leading Sherlock out of the station and into his car. Sherlock climbed into the passenger's seat – after deciding it would be particularly rude to get into the back – and gave Victor the address of the hotel.

"So, how's life in London?" Victor asked after two minutes of silence, and two minutes of Sherlock mentally begging him not to make small talk.

"Fine." the detective replied, staring out at the window.

"Still at Baker Street?"

"Yes."

"You only gonna answer in monosyllables?" Victor looked across at him with a cheeky smile.

Sherlock shrugged, which prompted a laugh out of the man next to him. The detective looked across at him with a frown.

"Sorry," Victor said. "It's just that you're exactly how I remembered you." He chuckled again.

_Don't reminisce about the past, don't reminisce about the past, _please_ don't reminisce about the past– _

"We had a good time at uni, didn't we?"

_Dear God, Victor, when did you become so mundane?_

"It was alright."

"Alright," Victor repeated. "You didn't like it?"

"There were some parts I regretted." he said bluntly. "Which I would not wish to relive."

"Right." Victor muttered, and any spark he was displaying previously had vanished.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock closed the door to his hotel room twenty minutes later, breathing a great sigh of relief now that Victor was gone, though the man had managed to coax out of him a promise to meet up again.

He took a few steps into the room and sank onto the edge of the bed to the left of him, dumping his travel bag on the floor. Barely a minute later, there was a knock at the door. Sherlock was certain it was Victor, returned to charm him into going out somewhere when he had a murder to investigate, so he deigned not to answer it. There was another knock after a few moments, and then someone spoke.

"Hello? Mr. Holmes."

Not Victor, then, Sherlock mused as he rose and headed to open the door. A young man was stood in front of him, probably in his early twenties. He had thick black hair and was wearing a policeman's uniform.

The young man smiled nervously when Sherlock opened the door. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, my name is Stanley Hopkins–"

"Do you have the crime scene photographs I requested?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes sir." Hopkins stuttered.

"Was every aspect of the room photographed?"

"Yes sir."

"Did you photo any items that were on Gloria Scott when she was murdered?"

"Yes sir."

"Is that coffee for me?"

"Black, two sugars?"

"Come in." Sherlock turned back into the room, Hopkins closing the door behind him and placing the coffee onto the desk opposite the bed. He also set down a file he'd been holding, and Sherlock wasted no time in opening it and spreading the many photographs across the table.

Gloria Scott had been stabbed in the abdomen and it was immediately obvious that blood loss had been the cause of death. She was laying face-up with her arms outstretched, eyes closed and blood staining the majority of her grey dress. There were close-up photos of parts of her body such as her stomach and hands, and Sherlock took his time in examining each photograph carefully, ensuring there was no detail left out.

He twisted towards Hopkins, who was perched on the edge of the bed and drinking his own coffee, seemingly content to let Sherlock work his magic. When Sherlock turned, Hopkins put down his coffee and got up. Before he could say anything, though, Sherlock spoke first.

"You were at the crime scene, weren't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Don't call me sir. Now, what do you think?"

"Me?" Hopkins asked dubiously.

"I imagine you wish to excel in your career," Hopkins nodded. "So tell me your thoughts."

"I was only outside the library. I didn't go inside; I didn't even see the body that closely."

"Well you can now. Stop making excuses and give me your deductions."

The young constable cleared his throat and stepped forward to look down at the photographs.

"Well..." he began, and picked up one of the images. "The victim was facing her attacker when she was stabbed?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Telling you." Hopkins stated more firmly.

"Alright. How do you know she was facing her attacker?"

"Because the knife wasn't long enough to make an exit wound on her back..."

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

"And this photo shows that her fingernails are broken, so she must have fought against the killer, meaning she'd seen them."

"Good, anything else?"

"Um..." Hopkins put down the photo and picked up another. "The door was locked from the inside – the librarian had to get someone to break it down – so the only way for the killer to escape was through one of the windows." He gestured to the large windows photographed.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked, linking his hands behind his back.

"Yes..." The constable drew out the word, frowning down at the image, before looking more confident. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's been raining for the past two days and there are footprints in the mud underneath one of the windows outside." Hopkins pointed at a close-up photo of two footprints pressed into the dirt.

"Well observed. Is that all?"

The officer considered for a few moments, chewing his bottom lip before nodding once and looking up at Sherlock. "What did I miss?"

"A fair amount, but it was a very good effort on your part." Sherlock commented, and Hopkins smiled slightly, taking the comment as a compliment.

"For example, you missed the fact that the killer worked at the university."

"How did you know that?"

"The items in Gloria Scott's possession. She had on her a phone, purse and car keys, but no key to lock the library door. You searched the library, yes? Was a key found? No, so therefore the killer must have had their own key, which they used to lock the door before attacking Gloria."

Hopkins nodded slowly in understanding, before suddenly frowning. Sherlock noticed and frowned in return. "What?" he asked sharply.

"Well–" Hopkins started hesitantly. "How - how do you know that the killer didn't take the victim's key with them after they murdered her? She might have had her own, but we didn't find it because the murderer kept it." Sherlock continued to frown down at him, and the constable shifted. "It – it's just an idea, I mean I've probably missed something obvious–"

"No," Sherlock ground out. "It's a valid point..." he sighed. "Well spotted."

Hopkins visibly brightened.

"Alright, never mind the key, we can still deduce from the footprints that the killer is most likely a man – size eleven shoes – and is around 6ft going by the gait..."

Sherlock continued to rattle off deductions and Hopkins quickly pulled out a notebook and jotted down everything the detective said. When he finished Sherlock looked expectantly at the young constable.

"Did you get a list of all employees in the university as I requested?"

"Yes, I've got it here." Hopkins rummaged in one of his pockets and pulled out two pieces of paper on which hastily scribbled names and professions had been written down. He handed it over to Sherlock, who examined the list.

"Any witnesses?" Sherlock murmured as he continued to read.

Hopkins shook his head. "No one saw or heard anything." he said. "I've got to go and speak to the librarian later, just to confirm parts of her statement, but she says she was the only one nearby and the only reason she got someone to break down the door in the first place was because she could smell smoke."

"Smoke?" Sherlock repeated, looking up questioningly.

"Yeah. Turns out a student had put out a cigarette in the room, and the librarian could smell the fumes that were still being emitted."

"Good sense of smell." the detective muttered.

"Well it was right next to the door."

Sherlock didn't reply, as his eyes had snagged on one of the names on the list.

"Victor Trevor." he said softly. "He didn't say he worked at the university."

"You met him?" Hopkins asked.

"Saw him today. An old... acquaintance of mine." Sherlock said, acting nonchalant in the hopes that the constable wouldn't pry.

"Did he mention anything? About the murder?" Hopkins questioned.

"No." Sherlock frowned, making a mental note to ask him whenever he next saw him.

Hopkins shrugged. "I've got to go round employees tomorrow, so I'll probably speak to him them." he said.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and he put the papers on the desk before turning back to Hopkins.

"Do we know of anyone who had a grudge against Gloria?"

The two spent the remainder of the day discussing aspects of the case, such as the weapon, motives and statements from the few people that the police had managed to speak to that morning. By the time Hopkins rose to leave, it had gone ten in the evening.

"Jesus Christ, when did it get so late?" Hopkins muttered, glancing at his watch. He rushed to gather up the photographs and put his empty coffee cup in the bin. "Mark's gonna be so pissed off..."

"Mark?" Sherlock asked as he leisurely rose to his feet and picked up a stray photo.

"My boyfriend." Hopkins answered as he took the photo. "I've got to go, um, I'm probably going to be at the university all day tomorrow if you were planning on investigating there. Also, the autopsy should come out, so I'll bring by the results later then. Ok, bye." The constable spoke in a hurried rush and slammed the door shut behind him before Sherlock could say anything.

The detective turned and picked up his phone, noting three new messages.

Two were from Victor.

_Great seeing you again today, Sherlock, you're just the same as you were all those years ago_, and: _We should take a rain check on that lunch_.

That was the last thing he wanted to do, Sherlock mused as he flopped backwards onto the bed. He wanted nothing more than to be drawn into Victor again, like he had been when they were both younger. _Victor is dangerous_, he adamantly told himself. _Stay away_.

But if Victor worked at the university then it would be impossible to avoid him; Sherlock would have to investigate him in regards to Gloria Scott's murder. Yes, Victor was the last person Sherlock would expect to be involved, but he couldn't afford any mistakes. He'd already fumbled once today, a mistake that a young and inexperienced constable had been able to point out.

If Victor continued to get inside his head, there was no telling how big a mistake he would make.

Sherlock picked up his phone and dialled John, gazing up at the ceiling as he waited for the doctor to pick up. Considering the time, the detective was prepared to ring again if John didn't answer immediat–

"_Hello?_"

"John," Sherlock stated, blinking in surprise. "That was quick. I assumed you'd be asleep."

"_Yeah, well, I can't sleep so I'm downstairs watching TV_." Despite saying he couldn't sleep, John still sounded exhausted. "_Everything okay?_"

"Mmm," the detective hummed.

"_That didn't sound too reassuring_." John commented. "_What's the matter?"_

"Gloria Scott..." Sherlock began.

"_The woman who was murdered_?"

"Yes."

"_What about her_?"

Sherlock frowned, still looking up at the ceiling. "I knew her."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and Sherlock could picture John trying to think of something to say. After a minute, John said softly: "_Why didn't you say anything this morning_?"

Sherlock was mid-shrug before he realised John couldn't see him. "It didn't seem relevant at the time."

"_Didn't seem – of course it's relevant, Sherlock_," John said. "_Are you alright_?"

"I'm fine." he replied dully.

"_How well did you know her_?"

"We were at university together but I didn't know her all too well; we weren't in the same social circles. She was... nice, though. Pleasant."

"_God, I'm sorry, Sherlock_."

"What for?" he asked.

"_Well, it's hard learning of a friend's death–"_

"She wasn't a friend."

_"–regardless of how long ago you last saw them. Are you sure you're okay_?" John asked, concern seeping into his voice.

"I told you, I'm fine."

"_Alright_," the doctor said softly. "_Is that the reason you called_?"

"I know Victor Trevor, too." Sherlock said.

"_I don't, though. Who's he_?"

"He works at the university where Gloria was murdered. The same university I attended, which is also the same university Victor attended."

"_So you knew both Gloria Scott and this Victor guy back in your twenties_?"

"Yes."

John blew out a breath. "_Are you sure you should be working this case?_" he asked. "_If it's personal for you, can you be certain you won't be affected_?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, half congratulating and half berating John for getting to the crux of the problem.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I don't know." he said honestly.

"_I don't know what to say, Sherlock, I really don't_." John said. "_How well did you know this Victor_?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Very well." he answered. "We were... quite close."

"_I see_," John said cautiously. "_And by close, do you mean... intimate_?"

"In a manner of speaking." Sherlock muttered. "He was the only one I could really tolerate, and so I spent the majority of my time with him. He was charming and intelligent but easily bored, and I was... lonely and bitter and also easily bored. There appeared to be some sort of... connection."

"_Connection,"_ John repeated gently, before he too cleared his throat. "_Did – uh – did you sleep with him_?"

"What? Why do you want to know that?" Sherlock asked sharply, swiftly losing his hesitant tone. "That is completely irrelevant to the topic."

"_It's not _that_ irrelevant, Sherlock, we were talking about Victor after all–"_

"But there's no need to ask such a personal question."

"_Alright, sorry, I didn't mean to pry–"_

"Actually, I have to go now, something's come up."

"_Come up? It's half ten, Sherlock, what could possibly have come up at this hour?"_

"Bye." Sherlock hung up without giving John a chance to say anything else, and he put his phone on the bedside table. Sighing again, he got up from the bed and changed into his pyjamas so that he'd be more comfortable and lay back down atop the duvet, placing his hands in a prayer-like position under his chin and gazing once more up at the ceiling, delving into his mind palace.

_Once again, John, you've stumbled upon the heart of my predicament._

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

"Wake up, John, come on."

John stirred and blinked when something was yanked out of his hand. Groaning, he rubbed at his head and squinted up at the person stood above him holding an empty beer bottle.

"Greg?" he mumbled. "What're you doin' here?"

"Checking up on you. You're gonna get a crick in your neck if you keep sleeping on that sofa." the DI answered, moving to the kitchen to put away the beer bottle, along with the other three he'd found.

John shifted, propping himself up on his elbows and looking about the living room. "How'd you get in here? I locked the door... didn't I?"

Greg smiled slightly as he came back into the room with a glass of water and painkillers. John took them gratefully as the DI sank into the armchair under the window. "You work with Sherlock Holmes for five years and you learn a few things." he said.

"Including lock picking?" John asked.

Greg shifted. "Possibly."

The doctor rolled his eyes as he swallowed the painkillers. "What's the time?"

Greg checked his watch. "It's just gone eight. What?" he asked as John groaned.

"Nothing," John sighed, "Just, I only got two and a half hours sleep."

"You went to bed at half five this morning? What were you doing all night?"

John shrugged. "Trying to sleep for the most of it. The alcohol did its job eventually."

Greg frowned incredulously. "You got drunk just to get to sleep?"

"Worked, didn't it?"

The DI blew out a breath. "To an extent, yes, but is it worth the hangover in the morning?"

"Not really, but I'm past the point of caring." John muttered, rubbing his head again. Wearily, he got to his feet and padded over to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. "Tea?" he asked.

"No, you're alright. I was only popping over to see how you were doing."

"I'm doing fine." John replied shortly.

"Clearly." Greg responded, picking up another beer bottle that had rolled under the table.

John sighed and braced himself against the counter. "What do you want me to say, Greg?" he asked quietly. "I'm struggling? I need help? What are you expecting?"

Greg held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I just needed to see for myself. I wasn't anticipating drunken confessions or anything, it's just, well... I know how you were last time. You know, when Sherlock–"

"You done?" John interrupted, turning to face the DI. "I'm fine, Greg, I told you. I don't need anyone's help... I'm fine." he repeated, though it didn't come out as confident as he'd wanted.

Thankfully, Greg didn't say anything of it. "Where is Sherlock, by the way?" he asked, opting for a change of subject. "He wasn't at Baker Street when I called this morning, so I kinda assumed he'd be–"

"He's not here, he's in Cambridge." John sighed, closing his eyes and hating the fact that everyone seemed to think he needed someone with him.

"Cambridge? What's he doing there?" Greg asked.

"Got a case. Someone he used to know was murdered at his old university."

"Christ. Is he okay?"

John shrugged. "Seemed so. He phoned last night about it, and from what I gathered he didn't know her very well. There was someone else there though who Sherlock recognised, and I'd almost say he was caught off guard by him. He was definitely jumpy."

"Blimey." Greg muttered. "I'm surprised you didn't go with him, actually. Change of scenery, and all that."

John rolled his eyes as he turned to prepare his tea. "The funeral's in a few days, if you've forgotten Greg, so I can hardly up sticks and take a holiday."

"Right, sorry."

"It's fine." John replied tersely. "Last chance for some tea."

"No, ta, but I've really got to go." the DI said, heading towards the door. "I'm coming back at lunch, though, alright? I doubt you're going to want breakfast so I'm making sure you'll eat later. No argument."

"Fine, see you then." John snapped and closed the door after Greg, before rubbing his head and heading towards the fridge for another beer, ignoring the time.

* * *

"Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock had barely entered the courtyard of the university before Stanley Hopkins jogged over.

"Hopkins," Sherlock acknowledged. "A productive morning?"

The constable nodded eagerly, drawing out his notebook and consulting his notes. "Yeah, we've got a lead. Jamie Henderson murdered Gloria Scott's cousin fifteen years ago and got out of prison a few days ago. And currently, no one knows where he is." Despite the morbid topic, Hopkins' eyes were buzzing with excitement.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was far from excited. He felt as though the blood had trained from his face and he quickly spun and marched out of the courtyard.

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!" Hopkins chased after him and hurried alongside his large strides. "What's the matter? Something happen?"

Sherlock stopped suddenly and faced the young constable, who was watching him with growing concern.

The detective opened his mouth to reply, but then disregarded his first answer and provided another. "Nothing, constable. But if you'll excuse me, there is something I must do." He didn't wait for an answer and so he spun again and continued walking to the side of the road, pulling out his phone as he did so.

With great reluctance, he phoned Victor.

"Hello?"

He cleared his throat. "Victor, it's Sherlock."

"Oh, hey. Taking me up on that rain check?" Victor's voice was laced with pleasant surprise when he answered.

"In a manner of speaking. Is there somewhere we can meet? I'm at the university."

"Sure, yeah, there's a restaurant a few streets from there. Care to meet there?"

"That's fine, yes. What's the address?" Victor told him the name and moments later Sherlock hung up and dragged his feet to the place.

He didn't have to wait long for Victor, who turned up in another tweed blazer, though this one was a shade darker than yesterday's. Victor held out his hand as he sat opposite Sherlock, and the detective half-heartedly shook it.

"The food here is delicious, Sherlock, you won't be disappointed." Victor said as he opened up the menu and scanned the list. Sherlock didn't answer and instead linked his hands together in his lap.

After a few minutes of silent browsing, Victor looked up at him, frowning slightly. "Sherlock, you're going to eat, aren't you?" he asked.

"Actually, no, I'm not hungry." he replied, before gesturing to the menu. "Take your time choosing, though, I'm in no rush."

"Did you eat breakfast this morning?" Victor questioned.

"What? No."

"Then you're eating now." he said firmly. "Even if it's not your own dish, you're sharing with me."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He regretted it even more when Victor smiled smugly and returned to his menu.

Soon enough Victor placed his order, and then he turned to Sherlock and gave him a bright smile.

"We didn't really have a chance to chat yesterday, so I'm glad you called." he said warmly.

"Right," Sherlock replied. "You didn't tell me you worked at the university." he said bluntly, deciding to skip the small talk.

Victor shrugged as he took a sip of wine. "Didn't seem important at the time. I was so caught up in seeing you again it rather slipped my mind."

Sherlock shifted at the subtle compliment and tried to remain firmly on track. "Slipped your mind? You knew I'm investigating Gloria's murder, didn't you think I'd need to know you still knew her?"

Victor shrugged again. "Sorry, Sherlock, I just forgot. I wasn't trying to hide it from you or anything, if that's what you think."

"What do you do there, then?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm the Dean of College, meaning I'm responsible for the discipline of Junior Members." he answered, resting his chin on his hand.

"Did you interact with Gloria frequently?"

"Are you interrogating me now?" Victor asked, smiling slightly.

"Just answer the question." Sherlock responded tersely.

Victor thought about it for a moment. "I suppose so." he said. "I'd say we at least walked by each other every day, and maybe spoke every other day."

Sherlock nodded to himself. "Do you still get on with her, even after Henderson killed her cousin when we attended the university?"

"Yeah, yeah, we get on fine."

Sherlock watched as a waiter brought Victor's food to the table, and waited until he'd left before speaking again.

"Did you hear about Henderson?" he asked quietly.

Victor paused with a forkful of pasta held to his mouth. "Hear what?" he asked, before taking a bite.

"He was released from prison four days before Gloria's murder."

Victor raised his eyebrows as he looked down at his food, jabbing the pasta with his fork. "No, I did not know that. Would've thought Gloria would tell me, assuming she'd known."

"It's likely that she knew, I'm sure the police would have contacted her."

Victor nodded, and then pushed his plate over to Sherlock. "One bite, at least." he commanded.

Deciding it would be futile to argue, the detective quickly scooped up some pasta and placed it in his mouth, avoiding Victor's pleased smirk.

"So are you going to speak with Henderson?"

"Yes, I'll have to if I want to solve Gloria's murder. There's a chance that he returned for her, and it's becoming more and more likely because apparently no one can find him."

"I'm sure you'll get him." Victor said softly. Sherlock looked across at him and frowned slightly.

"It's not like him, though," he muttered. "To murder Gloria. To murder anyone. I wouldn't have placed him as the type of person to do so."

Victor stopped eating, looking at Sherlock with bemused eyes. "Sherlock, you were the one who found the knife in his room all those years ago. His fingerprints were on it, so where's this doubt coming from?"

Sherlock took his time to answer, still not one hundred percent certain. "I don't know." he confessed. "But I hope to find out soon. I plan on starting the search this afternoon."

"Where will you begin?"

"His old residence, most likely. I can get the address from the police and see if they've missed anything."

Victor smiled slightly. "Well, good luck." he said. "I'll be at the university if you need me." With that, he got up, threw a few notes on the table and walked out, though not before giving Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze as he drifted past. The detective fought the urge to shudder.

* * *

"So, what exactly are we looking for, Mr. Holmes? I'm supposed to be at the station filling out paperwork."

"Hopkins, if you're concerned what your boss is going to say then simply refer them to me. I can take care of it. And we're looking for any sign that Jamie Henderson has been here these past few days."

Sherlock switched on the light to Henderson's bare living room, emptied of furniture when the man had been arrested.

"So, what, a disturbance in the dust or something?" the constable asked as he wandered into the unfilled kitchen.

"Yes, or any possessions that happen to be around." Sherlock replied. He felt his phone buzz and pulled it out, seeing that he'd received a text from John.

_Doing okay? Greg's round for lunch, won't leave me be – JW_

Sherlock smirked and pocketed his phone as Hopkins came back into the room, obviously having had no luck in the kitchen. The two continued to weave in and out of the rooms until after a few minutes they met in the hall.

"So what was up this morning?" Hopkins asked as they both made the ascent upstairs, Sherlock in front and Hopkins hovering behind him. "You seemed tense."

"I was fine." the detective responded shortly. "Just had a matter to attend to, that's all."

"Everything okay?"

"I said it's fine." Sherlock snapped, stopping and turning to glare at the young constable. "And now that you mention it, I probably won't be able to get you out of trouble with your boss, so perhaps you should be on your way." Sherlock's tone suggested he shouldn't argue with him.

"Uh, right, sorry. Yeah I'll – I'll just go." Hopkins stuttered, spinning on the stairs and hurrying down towards the entrance, closing the door behind him without a backwards glance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued up the stairs, ignoring the second buzz of his phone. He didn't feel guilty about dismissing Hopkins; the man was becoming annoying and he was never going to shut up, even if Sherlock told him to. Best he learned that Sherlock worked best on his own and he just had to fill out the paperwork.

When his phone buzzed again, Sherlock sighed and read the two texts.

_Any breaks in the case? Greg's just left – JW _

_You okay? – JW _

With an irritated huff, he text back a reply, _I'm fine. Don't text, I'm busy – SH_

He stashed his phone away into his pocket, half-tempted to turn it off before deciding it would be more inconvenient than useful. He turned to the nearest closed door, deducing it to be Henderson's old bedroom.

Sherlock had one hand on the doorknob when there was a sudden burst of pain in the back of his head and he felt his legs give out, unconsciousness falling upon him before he hit the floor.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

A constant beeping was what finally brought Sherlock back into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed, though, in an effort to stave off an impending headache, which was already throbbing behind his eyes. He could tell he was in a bed, but it wasn't his own – of that he was certain. His head was absolutely killing him and he decided the only way he could go about reducing that pain was by ordering someone to do it.

Slowly, Sherlock peeled open both eyelids, before squeezing them shut and regretting the decision to open them immediately due to the bright light that blinded his sight. Groaning, he brought a hand up to rub at his forehead, wishing the pain away but to no avail.

Someone cleared their throat nearby, and Sherlock carefully opened his eyes, this time prepared for the whiteness of his surroundings. Giving himself a moment to allow his eyesight to adjust, he then looked over to his left, surprise filling him when he saw a shock of black hair sat by his bedside.

"Mr. Holmes?" Stanley Hopkins leant forward once he saw that Sherlock was awake, concern gleaming in his green eyes.

"Mr. Holmes, you're in the hospital. How do you feel?"

Sherlock blinked and sat up slightly, groaning again when his head protested. "M'fine." he muttered.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Hopkins asked gently, seemingly realising that Sherlock's head was hurting.

"I was at Henderson's old house." he said, looking up at the young constable. "Someone... someone hit me?"

Hopkins nodded. "I came back in a few minutes after you sent me off because I'd forgotten my notebook, and when you didn't answer my call I went upstairs and found you sprawled on the landing unconscious."

"And you saw no one?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I didn't."

"Did you look about the house?"

Hopkins shifted. "Well, no, because I stayed with you whilst I waited for the ambulance. No, don't look like that," the constable said when Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would have heard if anyone was moving about, so I doubt your attacker was there."

"Unless they hid in another part of the house whilst they waited for us to go." Sherlock replied shortly, and Hopkins blushed in embarrassment.

"Well, er, I just came to see how you were doing, so I'll be going now. There's more paperwork waiting for me at the station, so – erm – see you later." Hopkins nodded once before spinning on his heel and hurrying out the room.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing at his head again. The pounding would not dissipate, and he was wondering what it would take to get a nurse or a doctor to give him something to dull the pain.

Eventually deciding that rehydrating himself would be the next best thing, Sherlock kept his eyes closed but stretched out his hand to the nearby table, having noticed a cup of water there when he was talking to Hopkins moments ago. He was unsuccessful in his efforts, though, and was just mentally moaning about having to move to reach when someone suddenly pressed the cup into his hands, making sure Sherlock's fingers had a hold of it before letting go.

Surprised, Sherlock opened his eyes to see John Watson stood beside his bed, smiling down at him.

"John." he stated, unable to say anything else due to disbelief.

"Alright?" the doctor asked, sinking into the chair that Hopkins had previously been perched in. He looked even more tired than the last time Sherlock had seen him, with dark shadows under his eyes and a weary expression that his soft smile couldn't eradicate.

"Why are you here?"

"Charming," John said with a slight chuckle, before turning serious. "Someone called me to say that you'd been attacked, and I took the next train to Cambridge to see how you were."

"But I thought you couldn't get away from London?"

John rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah, but I'm hardly gonna ignore you if you've been hurt, am I? What do you take me for?"

Sherlock didn't reply to his question, instead he asked another, "When did you get here?"

"At the hospital or in Cambridge?"

"Both."

John thought for a moment. "I arrived in Cambridge around half an hour ago. I got here about five minutes ago because I had to drop my stuff off."

"Drop your stuff off? What stuff?"

John frowned at him, "My luggage, Sherlock, what did you think? I dropped it off at a hotel before coming over here."

"A hotel? You're staying?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

John smiled. "Yes I'm staying." he said. "Someone's got to look after you."

"But... What about the funeral?"

John shrugged slightly. "I know it's in two days but I've had all the meetings I need to have. I guess anything else can be done over the phone. You don't mind, do you? That I'm here?"

"No, not at all." Sherlock said suddenly feeling much better than he was a few minutes ago.

"I can't - I mean if this case takes too long I'm going to have to go back to London."

"Yes of course," Sherlock replied. "Do you-"

"Sherlock? Oh thank God you're alright." At that moment Victor Trevor rushed into the room, red-faced and panting.

"Victor, wh-what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, a frown on his face.

At the mention of his name, John looked up sharply and studied the man who was now moving to stand on the other side of Sherlock's hospital bed.

"How are you feeling? Is your head still hurting?" Victor questioned.

"I'm fine, Victor, thank you." Sherlock answered.

"Good, good." Victor breathed. Then, he looked up and his worried eyes found John's thoughtful ones. "Who's this?" he asked Sherlock, though he didn't look away from the doctor.

"John Watson." John answered, leaning forward to offer his hand. "I'm a friend of Sherlock's."

"Yes of course, I've read your blog." Victor replied as he took the offered hand, smiling brightly. John smiled in return, though it was dimmed.

"I would have thought you'd be here from the start of the case, seems interesting enough to blog about."

John hesitated. "Something came up." he replied. "I was unable to leave London."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Victor said.

The doctor shrugged. "Wasn't your fault." He smiled again, weakly.

Sherlock had been watching the exchange silently, and when there was a lull in the conversation he jumped in. "How did you know I was in the hospital?" he asked.

Victor waved his hand nonchalantly. "Someone told me." he answered.

"Who?" Sherlock pressed.

The other man frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious."

"A – uh – police officer told me. Young guy. Thick black hair."

Hopkins? "When did he tell you? He was in here not five minutes ago."

"Yeah, I bumped into him outside the hospital. He told me then. Why?" Victor frowned again.

"It doesn't matter."

"O-kay." Victor dragged out the word, looking to John for an explanation. The doctor shrugged.

"Well, anyway, I have to get going. I just wanted to see how you were. Catch you later?"

Sherlock hummed in response, looking outside the window. Victor smiled and patted his leg before taking his leave, not responding to John's goodbye.

"Did Hopkins tell you I was in the hospital?" Sherlock asked John as soon as Victor had gone.

"Yeah, I think it was him. He phoned a couple of hours ago, said he was with the police and that you'd been attacked."

"Did you see him when you got to the hospital?"

"I don't know what he looks like." John replied.

Sherlock sighed. "Victor just described him. A young man, probably early twenties with thick black hair and green eyes. A little taller than you. He was wearing a police officer's uniform for God's sake."

"Yes, alright, calm down. I did see him." John said. "He was in the hospital's foyer. Didn't say anything to me as I walked by though. Why? What's the matter?"

"Hopkins knows who you are because he thought to call you when I was unconscious." Sherlock stated, and John nodded. "He doesn't know what you look like though, which makes sense; we live in London and he in Cambridge."

"With you so far." John says. "My name's obviously down somewhere as someone to contact when you're injured. What's the problem?"

"Why would he tell Victor?" Sherlock asked. "He doesn't know who Victor is, he's never seen him before, and his name certainly isn't down as a contact."

"How do you know he hasn't seen Victor before? For all you know they could be best friends."

"But Victor described him to me as 'a young police officer'. I know who Hopkins is and Victor knows I'm working with the police so he would have just named him. But instead he described him as if he'd never met the young man before."

"Right," John said, his brow furrowed slightly. "What's your point?"

"My point is, how did Hopkins know to tell Victor about me if they've never met?"

"Well maybe Hopkins has seen you with Victor or something and just assumed you two knew each other well."

Sherlock didn't seem convinced but he stopped arguing. John was still watching him with an air of concern, before he cleared his throat and looked towards the door.

"So that was Victor Trevor?" he asked. The detective nodded, still lost in thought.

"He seems nice."

Sherlock looked across at John. "He is... nice. What?" he asked, when John merely nodded again.

"The other night when you phoned, you sounded a bit shaken by him." he said softly. "Is everything okay between the two of you?"

"Everything's fine." Sherlock replied tersely.

"Okay, just asking." John said, hands up in a placating gesture as he sat back in his chair. "Is there history between you, then?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "You could say that." he muttered.

"But he's not giving you grief now, is he?"

Sherlock frowned at John. "No, he's been perfectly amiable." he said slowly, not sure what answer the doctor was expecting.

"Alright, that's all I wanted to know." John said, smiling reassuringly.

Sherlock regarded him seriously for a few more moments, and then he looked away with a great sigh.

"When can I leave?" he asked, opting for a change of subject. "I feel fine, I don't have to be here."

"Well you've been here for three hours, just sleeping for the most of it, so you should be good to go about now. I'll find a doctor, though, just to make sure they don't want to keep you in for longer. Back in a sec." John rose to his feet and marched out the door, leaving Sherlock feeling weary.

* * *

By the time the two returned to the hotel, it had just gone six in the evening. They both entered Sherlock's room and the detective flopped onto the bed whilst John filled up and then switched on the electric kettle provided by the hotel.

"So," John said. "Mind filling me in?"

"On what?" Sherlock asked, voice muffled by the pillow his face was smashed against.

"On the football game I missed whilst I was on the train." John said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "The case, you berk. What have you got so far?"

"Oh." The detective rolled over and sat up, accepting the cup of tea that John gave him.

"Any suspects yet?" John asked, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed.

"The police are currently looking for a man named Jamie Henderson." Sherlock said. "He was arrested fifteen years ago for killing Gloria Scott's cousin, so you can imagine why they'd be interested in talking to him." he muttered.

"Mmm," John agreed, before noticing Sherlock's distant look. "What is it?"

The younger man coughed. "I knew him, back when I was at university." he said quietly.

John studied him for a while, unsure what to say. "I... see." He frowned. "So is everyone you knew at university involved in this case?" he asked, opting for a bit of humour.

Neither of them laughed.

"Are you going to continue the investigation?" John continued.

"I have to." Sherlock replied. "Someone has to solve Gloria's murder and the police won't be able to do it."

"Yeah, but do you _want_ to?"

The detective sighed, falling to lie on his back. "This case, John," he began quietly, staring up at the ceiling, "is not one I would wish to repeat. I don't like constantly being thrown by new revelations... and people. Victor Trevor was – and still is, now – charming and courteous and fiery, but he's also dangerous and spontaneous, which isn't always a good thing." he added faintly, before looking over to the concerned doctor and pursing his lip. "And I know you're grieving, John, and I apologise for failing to be more involved with your well-being, but I _need_ to solve this, if only to put myself at ease."

John sighed and rubbed his head. "Forget about my well-being, Sherlock," he muttered. "I can look after myself. I'm more bothered about you at the minute. I know that was no big speech, but to admit you're struggling... Sherlock, maybe we should just go back to London."

Sherlock scoffed, looking back up at the ceiling. "I can't run from this, John." he said. "Having Victor show up threw me, I'll admit, but I can most definitely handle it. What we need to do, tomorrow, is start looking for Henderson."

John stared down at his lap. "What did Victor do, when you two were at uni?"

Sherlock froze. "...What makes you think he did anything?"

The doctor rolled his eyes. "You've given enough away, Sherlock." he said gently. "What happened?"

Sherlock swallowed. "You asked before... if we ever slept together."

John watched him warily. "Yes?"

There was a moment of silence. "Once." Was the curt reply.

John waited for Sherlock to elaborate, but nothing else followed. "Right," he said slowly. "Was that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Good thing at first... I mean, I wanted to." John nodded, waiting for him to continue. "But–" Another clearing of the throat. "But during, I didn't – I mean, I wasn't–"

"I get it, I get it." John said, saving Sherlock from his stuttering. "You changed your mind, yeah?" The detective nodded.

"How did Victor react?"

"Understandably, he got angry." Sherlock replied, more confident now. "He assumed I had been leading him on, and thought I was merely using him. He... shouted a lot and made comments that my youthful self found hurtful and took very personally. And... I have always thought he came close to hurting me physically, too, but he never touched me. He left that night."

"Left?"

"He transferred universities, moved to Oxford. I thought he'd remained there, which was why I was so surprised to see him the other day."

John nodded slowly. "It's not understandable, Sherlock." he said softly.

"Hmm?"

"Victor's reaction shouldn't have been so angry, especially if he seemed angry enough to hit you. You had every right to say no, so don't cover for him."

Sherlock rolled to his side, his back to his friend. "I was... distraught, when he left. Despite his hurtful comments I was still attached to him, and I tried to persuade Victor to return, but he cut off all contact with me. Even Mycroft's intervention did not sway him."

"What happened?" John asked quietly, staring at the brunette's back.

Sherlock sighed. "When we were close, Victor introduced me to a vice, one I became addicted to."

John felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice cold water over him. "Drugs." he croaked, and he closed his eyes when he saw Sherlock nod.

"Yes, drugs. Cocaine, to be specific, but I'm sure you guessed that. It... helped. It calmed my mind when it started to get crowded and go into overdrive. I'd feel muted, almost, and it was the best feeling I had ever encountered. Coincidentally, Gloria Scott's cousin – the man who Henderson killed – was my drug dealer."

"What happened when Victor left, Sherlock?" John asked determinedly.

The detective shifted, still refusing to look at John. "I overdosed." he finally admitted. "Deliberately."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." John breathed, bowing his head.

Sherlock rolled onto his back. "I was young and stupid." he said coldly. "I let emotions and sentiment get the better of me." he spat out.

"Does Victor know this?" the doctor asked quietly.

"No. I had no reason to tell him. I imagine he still holds a grudge because I supposedly used him."

"What happened then, after you overdosed? Did someone find you?"

The corner of Sherlock's lip quirked slightly. "Yes, someone did... When this happened I was living alone and it was in my apartment that I decided to inject myself. Luckily, during this time, I had an acquaintance who visited me frequently and happened to come round that night."

"Who was it?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock smirked. "A young sergeant named Lestrade."

John's eyebrows shot up into his forehead. "Greg? Greg found you?"

"Mmm-hmm. He used to come to me regarding details of cases, and I would explain them to him with the promise that if he was ever promoted, he would allow me access to crime scenes. Actually, he made that deal with me once I'd woken up, as an ultimatum to not getting high again."

"I didn't know he'd lived in Cambridge."

Sherlock nodded. "It was only for a few years. He got transferred to London eight months later and I followed."

John smiled. "Bet he was pleased about that." he said.

"Elated." the detective replied with another smirk.

John chuckled quietly before looking over to Sherlock. "So is this why you've been so hesitant around Victor?" he asked in a more serious tone.

"I can never predict his motives," Sherlock said. "And so I don't know if he's playing with me or if he's put the past behind him and is genuinely pleased to see me."

John considered this. "I think he likes having you here, Sherlock," he said. "But I'm not sure that if he does have pent up feelings, bottling them up is the right way to go about it. It might come out soon and probably in a way that will hurt you or him."

"What are you saying?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I'm saying be careful around him. I think as long as you don't provoke him or remind him of the past, you two will get along fine... I'm guessing you want to remain friends with him?"

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. "He was my closest friend. I felt... lost the few months after he'd gone. Now that I've seen him again, it would be... preferable to become close again. Though not as close as last time." he added with a slight frown.

John looked down at his lap. "Sleep on it, Sherlock, and I'm sure you'll have a clearer head tomorrow." He got to his feet and made his way to the door. "I'm down the hall if you need me. Night."

Sherlock didn't reply.

When John closed the door to his own room, he lost the facade and let out a harrowing sigh, feeling that unwelcome but now familiar grief creep up on him. It was easy to forget about Mary and his daughter when he was with Sherlock, and whenever it did come up he was always able to squash down his heartache enough that Sherlock didn't notice anything was amiss. When he was alone, though, it was not so easy.

John stepped further into the room and eyed his gun lying on the bedside table. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand, running his finger over the trigger and thumbing the safety on and off. He stared at it for a good while before slowly emptying it of bullets, hiding them in the drawer and then putting the gun back on the table.

Tiredly, he undressed and changed into his pyjamas, and then climbed into bed, burrowing into the covers and glumly wondering if his night terrors would continue to haunt him.

* * *

Sherlock stayed up that night staring at the ceiling and thinking. He regretted being so open with John; he knew the doctor had enough on his plate without having to worry about Sherlock, but the detective knew this had been something he needed to say aloud and John seemed willing to listen. There wasn't anyone else he wanted to tell and he certainly wasn't going to speak to Victor about it.

A knock on the door suddenly interrupted his thoughts and with a huff he sat up and answered it, only to see Victor stood on the other side holding a coffee and smiling brightly at him.

"Morning," he said. "I brought you some coffee." He offered the drink, and Sherlock took it, a small sense of shock coursing through his system. "How's your head?"

"It's fine...What are you doing?" he asked dubiously.

"Bringing you coffee." Victor replied with a laugh. "And I thought we could get breakfast somewhere."

Sherlock frowned. "I... have a case to solve." he said, surprised that Victor would forget.

"Oh, God, yeah of course, sorry." the other man smacked his forehead. "It completely slipped my mind."

"Right." Sherlock replied, not entirely sure what to say.

"Well actually I should be going." Victor said, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I've got some files to assess so I might as well start them."

The detective pursed his lips. "You could – you could come with me." he said. "I'm planning on going to the morgue today and I'm aware it isn't a glamorous destination but afterwards we could grab a quick bite to eat."

Victor's eyes lit up. "No, I'd love to come." he grinned. "Now?"

"Allow me a moment to get dressed and we can leave shortly."

"Great, I'll be down in the foyer." Victor darted off, leaving Sherlock feeling a little out of sorts as he turned to close the door and search for some clothes. He had decided to observe Victor today and try to tell if the man was still holding a grudge. So far he seemed genuine, so Sherlock met Victor five minutes later with an open mind.

Victor drove them the short trip to the morgue and the pair walked to the mortician's office and was met by an elder man with short grey hair, bent over a file. The man looked up when Sherlock cleared his throat from the doorway.

"Can I help you?" he asked, peering at them through square glasses.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm here for the autopsy report on Gloria Scott. Are you Dr. Marshall?"

"Yes, that's me." Dr. Marshall leant back in his chair. "And I gave the autopsy report to a young constable yesterday afternoon. Hasn't he spoken to you?"

"I haven't had a chance to meet with him yet." Sherlock said. "Would you still be able to give me the information? I am merely interested in the murder weapon."

Dr. Marshall nodded and then flicked open a nearby file, looking down at the information before speaking. "Well, I can tell you the blade was around seven and a half inches long and pierced the woman's stomach, meaning she would have bled out quite quickly. I also noticed some bruising around the wound and I would estimate the knife had some sort of hilt, so that when the blade was forced into Scott's body, the hilt would hit the surrounding skin and the force of the impact would cause it to bruise." Sherlock nodded in understanding, whilst Victor looked uncomfortable.

The detective cleared his throat and linked his hands behind his back. "Doctor, are you familiar with the stabbing of Hank Beddoes fifteen years ago? It occurred at Cambridge University and the perpetrator was Jamie Hudson."

Dr. Marshall thought for a moment. "It rings a bell, hold on a minute." He rose to his feet and walked over to a filing cabinet in the corner. After a few minutes of rummaging through papers, he pulled out a worn file.

"Here we are." he said as he sat back down. "What is it you wanted to know?" He looked up at the pair questioningly.

"Would you say that the weapon used for Beddoes' murder could be the same as the one used for Gloria's murder?"

The mortician frowned down at the two files, clearly contemplating it. "It's a possibility, yes. But wouldn't the police have kept the knife as evidence?"

"Yes, but it could have easily been stolen." Sherlock brushed aside the comment.

Dr. Marshall didn't seem convinced. "But why go to all that trouble when there are easier ways to acquire a knife?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It may not have been much trouble to retrieve it."

The mortician still didn't look all that convinced, but he didn't say anything of it. "Alright, well, if that's all you came for...?"

"Yes, we'll be leaving now." Sherlock nodded curtly and turned to go, Victor following behind him with a dazed look on his face, still processing the short conversation.

"Well, that was enlightening." Sherlock said as they stepped outside.

"Was it?" Victor asked hesitantly.

"Yes, it makes it more likely that Henderson is once again our killer."

Victor nodded. "Yes, that's what I thought. Still no luck on locating him, then?" he asked as he steered Sherlock down the street towards a cafe.

The detective shook his head as his phone buzzed. "No, the police haven't gotten back to me so I assume they've had no break either." He pulled out his mobile and noticed he had one missed call and an unread text.

_Where are you? – JW _

"Do you think it was him that hit you yesterday when you were at his house?" Victor asked, and Sherlock put away his phone, not bothering to reply.

"Possibly. It seems the most obvious answer, anyhow."

"But?" Victor prompted, sensing that Sherlock seemed unsure.

"But I would have thought he'd recognise me." Sherlock said. "You were able to point me out at the train station and we hadn't met for fifteen years, so I would have expected Henderson to identify me."

Victor nodded his understanding. "Maybe he just didn't recognise you from the back, Sherlock."

"Maybe." Sherlock muttered, still sceptical.

They made their way into a small cafe at half past eleven, and Victor made Sherlock sit down whilst he ordered. In the end he bought two pastries and two coffees.

"Just how you like it." Victor smiled as he sat opposite the detective, pushing the coffee and snack forward.

"Thank you." Sherlock said. The two ate in silence for a moment, before Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I – er – never really got the chance to ask after you." he said, and Victor looked up with raised eyebrows. "I know you're a Dean, but when we were at the university, I thought you wanted to be with the police? In fact, didn't you work at the station for a bit?" he inquired politely, careful not to mention anything that would anger Victor.

"For a bit." Victor nodded. "I was a desk sergeant for six months before I decided that it was dreadfully boring and quit."

"Why didn't you wait to get promoted?" Sherlock asked with a slight frown.

Victor shrugged. "I was too impatient." he smiled. "I decided I wanted to go into education instead, and anyway I... transferred... so the job wouldn't have been practical." he finished quietly, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock winced at the touchy subject and took a sip of coffee, looking out the window.

It was ten minutes before Victor spoke. "So," he said in a lighter tone, fiddling with his cup. "This John Watson. How long have you known him?"

"Five years." the detective replied, glad to be on a safer topic. "Including the time I spent... away."

"Good friends, then." Victor mused.

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, watching Victor apprehensively and wondering whether the other man was really going to do this. "We get along well."

"Good. I was just asking." Victor said innocently when he noticed Sherlock's uncertain gaze. "It's nice to know you've met someone."

Sherlock sighed and barely managed not to roll his eyes. "We're not together, Victor, if that's what you're trying to get at."

"No, no, that's not what I was trying to get at." the other man said with a chuckle, his eyes closed in exasperation. "I was just making sure you weren't lonely."

The detective tried not to bristle. "Well I'm not. Lonely." Sherlock said, nodding resolutely, confused as to whether Victor really was concerned about him.

"Good." Victor said softly. "...Sherlock." he cleared his throat. "Did you want to come back to my flat?"

* * *

John was up at 4am that morning after having another bad night. As soon as he'd opened his eyes he'd been assaulted with the thought of: _the funeral's tomorrow, the funeral's tomorrow, the funeral's tomorrow_. He'd realised that if he planned on attending he'd have to take a train back to London tonight to make it in time for the early event. He also realised he'd have to tell Sherlock this, as he was sure the detective wouldn't be particularly pleased if he just upped sticks and left during the middle of this difficult case. He made a mental note to talk to Sherlock before getting out of bed.

By eleven o'clock in the morning he had rearranged the clothes in his suitcase and was now sat at the desk, having already typed out half a blog post on this new case. He had just decided to take a break when he suddenly heard shouting outside his room and, curious, he rose to his feet to stick his head out the door to see a young man in a police officer's uniform standing outside Sherlock's room, knocking and loudly calling for the detective.

John recognised the man as the officer he had passed in the hospital yesterday. The doctor cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Are you looking for Sherlock?" he asked.

The officer jumped and spun to face him quickly. "Who're you?" he asked suspiciously.

"John Watson." he replied. "I think you called me yesterday when Sherlock was attacked."

"Yes, that was me." the young man answered, nodding. "I'm DC Stanley Hopkins." He looked back towards Sherlock's hotel door. "I don't suppose you know if Mr. Holmes is in his room, do you?"

"Have you tried calling for him?" John teased as he pulled out his phone.

Hopkins frowned. "Yes, but I don't think he can hear me–"

"I'm sure he would have heard you." John interrupted. "In fact, I think the whole corridor heard you."

Hopkins blushed. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to wake you–"

"It's fine." John smiled. "I was already awake, anyway." He dialled Sherlock's number and then pressed his ear to the detective's room, straining to hear a phone. Hopkins caught on to what he was doing and also listened at the door. When they were met with silence John stopped the call.

"He never leaves his phone so I'd imagine he's gone out and taken it with him." John said.

"Okay, well, could you tell him I was here if you see him? I've got the autopsy report with me, which I was going to give to him yesterday, but, you know..."

"He got knocked out." John finished as he fired off a text to Sherlock, asking where he was.

"Yeah." Hopkins grimaced.

"Well, I'll tell him if I see him." the doctor said, putting away his phone and ignoring the inkling of disappointment that Sherlock had gone off without him.

"Cheers." Hopkins said gratefully, and John suddenly frowned, remembering something Sherlock had said last night.

"Stanley," he began, and the constable raised his eyebrows. "I was wondering, how did you know who Victor Trevor was?"

The younger man frowned, worrying that he'd missed something. "I don't... know a Victor Trevor." he said, though it didn't come out confidently and as he spoke he'd been mentally running through his contacts to double-check he didn't know any Victors.

"I thought you told him that Sherlock was in hospital yesterday?"

Hopkins' frown deepened. "No, I only told you." he said. "Why, what's wrong?"

John too was looking puzzled. "Hmm? Oh, it's probably nothing. It's just that Sherlock wasn't sure how Victor had come to know he'd been attacked, and we assumed you'd told him."

Hopkins shook his head. "No, that wasn't me." he said, and then smiled slightly. "Maybe he'd been in Henderson's house and had seen it happen." he joked.

John's heart plummeted. "Yeah, maybe." he said weakly.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Victor's apartment was very spacious and Sherlock could tell a lot of money had been put into it to make it look this appealing. Wood panelling covered the floor and in front of Sherlock were two large, black leather sofas and a large television. Glass bookshelves flanked the TV and different sized paintings adorned the white walls. Around the corner was the kitchen, where it looked like everything was made of stainless steel.

Victor led him in and offered to take his coat before heading to the kitchen to prepare some drinks.

"Make yourself at home." he called, and Sherlock moved further into the living room and perched on the corner of one of the sofas, not entirely comfortable with the situation. He wasn't sure how to act, and he really did want to get along with Victor but he worried that he might do or say something that would anger the other man.

Victor returned and gave a glass of red wine to Sherlock, before sitting at the other end of the sofa. Sherlock took a sip of his drink and gestured about the room with one hand.

"This apartment is... nice." he said lamely, cursing himself for not thinking of a better adjective.

Victor grinned. "Thanks." he replied, looking around as if this was the first time he'd visited. "It took a lot of time to complete all the renovations, but I like it." Sherlock just nodded, at a loss what to say. He took another sip of his drink. Victor smiled.

"This is awkward, isn't it?" The detective let out a laugh. "A little. I should be solving a murder." Victor waved his hand. "Nonsense, there's not much you can do now, is there? Apart from wait for Henderson, and something tells me it's going to be a while before you find him."

"Especially if I leave it to the police." Sherlock said, and realised that he really shouldn't put off a case. "I really should be going, Victor, but thank you for inviting me back." He stood up to leave, and Victor quickly followed him, placing his untouched drink on the table.

"Wait, Sherlock. You can stay for a little while. Nobody needs you at the moment."

Sherlock's phone buzzed with an incoming call and Victor laughed. "Alright, I was wrong there."

The brunette smiled and pulled out his phone to see that it was John who was calling him. He blocked the call and put back his mobile, deciding that he could speak to the doctor later.

"Apologies." Sherlock said politely.

"Come sit back down." Victor said, taking his arm and leading him to the sofa. "You can tell me more about what you do for a living.

"I'm a consulting detective." Sherlock said as he resumed his seating position.

"Really? You actually became one?"

"Only one in the world." the detective said with a small smile.

"Wow." Victor looked impressed.

"I mean, I can remember you telling me that's what you were going to do when we were younger, but to be honest, I never really believed you." he said sheepishly.

"Perfectly acceptable, no one really felt that I'd be able to achieve that." Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh no, it's not that I didn't think you could do it, I just didn't know if people would really take you seriously." Victor said earnestly, his brown eyes shimmering with conviction.

Sherlock nodded. "Well maybe not everyone takes me seriously, but the people I need in order to do my job do." Sherlock's phone vibrated again, and with a sigh he took it out and silenced it once more.

"So you work with the police?" Victor asked, taking Sherlock's wine glass from the table and handing it to him.

"Yes, I do. They almost always need me, so it's lucky I live in London." Victor grinned as Sherlock took another sip of his drink. "I imagine it's very rewarding."

"It's always a good feeling whenever I crack a case, so yes, you could say it's – oh for God's sake." he muttered as he felt his phone buzz for the third time, and he angrily pulled out his phone to see that John was still trying to call him. "Do you mind if I take this call?" he asked, and Victor nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, my room's just down the corridor if you want to use it." Sherlock nodded his appreciation and marched down the hallway until he was in private and answered the phone.

"What, John?" he asked as he closed the door.

"_Sherlock, God, why the hell haven't you been answering my calls_?" John's voice seemed concerned on the other end of the line, and Sherlock rubbed at his head, feeling a headache coming on.

"I'm busy, John." he said sharply. "Is there a particular reason you're calling?"

"_Yeah, where are you? DC Hopkins is here with your autopsy report and you left without telling me where you were going_."

"I hardly need to report my movements to you." Sherlock sighed.

"_I know, but I was just talking with Stanley–_"

"Who?" Sherlock asked timidly, closing his eyes.

"_Stanley Hopkins, Sherlock_." John said, and Sherlock knew he was rolling his eyes. "_And he says that he never spoke to Victor yesterday about you going to the hospital. He doesn't even know a Victor Trevor._" Sherlock pursed his lips at the information, but he quickly discarded the implications.

"I see. Why do you feel the need to tell me this?" he asked instead.

"_Because, you great git, it means that Victor found out another way."_

"Yes? So someone else must have told him." he said, though he himself was struggling to believe it. He firmly squashed down his doubts. "Is this the only reason you called?"

"_Yeah, but who else would have told him? No one else knew except you, me, Hopkins and whoever hit you. And possibly Mycroft_." he added.

Sherlock frowned. "This really isn't important, John, so can I go now? Pretty please?"

"_Sherlock, please, I'm trying to tell you that Victor isn't being completely honest with you. You need to be careful with him_."

"Careful?" He shouldn't have to be careful with Victor, should he? "John, yesterday you told me he was fond of me, so why would he lie?"

"_Have you suddenly forgotten the reason you're in Cambridge? Or did you think that you were there to become pals with Victor again_?" John's tone was beginning to become angry, and Sherlock's own temper was rising, though he wasn't sure who his anger was directed at.

"You're not seriously implicating Victor with the murder of Gloria? Because I would know." Wouldn't he?

"_Not if he hid it extremely well. You're a detective, for crying out loud, he's hardly gonna leave the murder weapon lying around. And anyway, you've become so fixated on him it'd be easy for him to pull the wool over your eyes_." At that last sentence, Sherlock found that his anger was now directed at John.

"You've barely met him, John, how can you be so sure he's the murderer? And I am not fixated!" he hissed.

"_Yes you are_." John retorted. "_You rarely give anyone else this much attention, and yes I know you want to remain friendly with him this time but you've got to admit that it is risky to be balancing him and this case when he's still a suspect_."

"You're being ridiculous, John, as always. I suggest you start packing now anyway, the funeral's tomorrow, isn't it? Wouldn't want to miss it, would you?" It was completely the wrong thing to say, and Sherlock knew it was, but he just wanted John to hang up so he could figure things out on his own.

"_I swear to God, Sherlock–"_ Sherlock could hear the anger in John's voice but he didn't hear what the doctor said next because he was distracted by a noise in the living room. Placing his phone against his shoulder, Sherlock poked his head of the room out to see Victor stood near the kitchen, covering his face with his hands.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asked with a slight frown.

Victor jumped and turned to him. "Hmm? Oh, it's just that I've realised I left some students' reports in my office at the university which kind of need to be checked ASAP. I'll have to quickly nip out and get them, if you don't mind."

Sherlock found he really needed Victor here so that they could talk, so he said the first thing that popped into his mind"Victor, I'll ask John to get them; the hotel is nearer to the university and he can drop them off." John really wasn't going to be pleased when Sherlock asked him.

"What? No, no, it's fine, I can get them." Victor said hurriedly, pulling on his jacket.

"Just remain there a moment." Sherlock commanded before retreating back into the bedroom, shutting the door. "John, while you're there go to the university and get some students' reports in Victor's office. I would imagine they'd be sitting on the desk if Victor needs to check them so urgently, so they shouldn't be hard to find."

There was a long beat of silence before John spoke. "_You can't be serious, Sherlock_." he said lowly.

"I assure you I am." Sherlock replied. "It will only take around twenty minutes and then you can go back to doing whatever you're doing at the moment."

"_What I am doing_," John growled, "_is worrying about my idiot of a flatmate who is going to get himself killed if he does not listen to me!"_

"John, just do as I ask and then we can focus on this little mistake of yours." he said before hanging up, ignoring whatever John was saying on the other end of the line. He walked out of the bedroom and was annoyed to find that Victor had ignored him and had left for the university, leaving him alone in the apartment.

He sighed and flopped onto the couch, debating whether to stay or leave and resolutely ignoring the small voice that suggested perhaps... maybe, just maybe, John was... right?

* * *

"I'm going to kill him myself." John muttered to himself as he stuffed his phone back in his pocket before moving from the hallway into his hotel room, taking his gun from the bedside table and stuffing it into his jeans. He marched back out and headed down the corridor, trotting down the stairs and seeing Stanley Hopkins stand in the lobby. The constable noticed him and caught up as he strode out the door.

"Where are you going?" Hopkins asked.

"To the university. Sherlock's kindly asked me to pick something up for him." He figured he could pick up the damn files and then confront Victor at the man's home. He frowned at Hopkins when the young man held his arm and steered him in another direction.

"What–?"

"I'll give you a lift." Hopkins said with a smile. "I'm supposed to be at the library this afternoon so I might as well go over now." John nodded his thanks as he climbed into the patrol car, and he wondered if he should tell Hopkins – or someone from the police – of his suspicions or sort it out between the three of them. After two minutes of debating he chose to keep quiet; he didn't want to waste time if he was wrong and it would only give extra incentive for Sherlock to mock him.

Fifteen minutes later and Hopkins pulled up outside the university. The pair got out and, after John suggested they exchange numbers in case he needed to contact him, went their separate ways. Hopkins veered left down a corridor whilst John navigated his way upstairs after asking directions from a student to Victor's office.

The doctor weaved through the students that littered the hallway and looked at the sign on each closed door until he finally found Victor's office. He noted with some surprise that a 'do not disturb' sign had been placed on the handle, but he ignored it and stepped into the room, somewhat confused that the door had been left open if Victor didn't want anyone going in. _But then_, he mused, _maybe another member of staff needs access to this room_.

The office itself was quite small, with Victor's desk placed near the back of the room and facing the door. Two chairs were placed in front of the desk, and a large leather chair was situated behind it. John moved closer and scanned the many papers and files on top of the table, looking for any sort of label that described some students' reports. Nothing seemed to stand out, though, so he cursed and sat down in the leather chair and started sifting through the notes.

It was barely two minutes later, though, when John heard a muffled thumping noise from behind him. He frowned and spun in the chair, only to be faced with a wall and a door that he presumed led to some sort of cupboard. The thumping continued and John slowly got to his feet, acutely aware that the noise was coming from behind the door.

John gently placed his ear to the door, as if that would help him to identify what was creating the sound. He grabbed the handle and turned it, but found that it was locked. When he rattled the handle a few times the thumping seemed to increase in frequency.

"Hello?" the doctor asked cautiously, feeling half stupid for talking to a door. But when he spoke, he was certain that the resulting louder thumps were a reply, as if something was banging harder against the door when it heard John's voice.

"Just hold – hold on." he muttered, partly to himself. He turned and searched the desk until with a triumphant smile he found a paper clip. Forming it into the right shape, John returned to the door and knelt down, inserting the paper clip into the lock. He spent the next two minutes fiddling with the lock, wiggling the paper clip and moving it back and forth until, with a resounding click, the lock gave way. John rose to his feet and pulled open the door without a moment's hesitation, ready to face whatever had been thumping so vigorously.

What he saw, though, was the last thing he had been expecting. A blonde man sat before him, legs and arms bound and duct tape placed across his mouth. He was wide-eyed and looked up at John with terror, as if he was expecting the doctor to attack him. The man had dried blood crusted at his forehead, and he looked as if he'd been crying. John stared at him in complete shock for about five seconds before he came to himself.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered as he rushed forward and knelt next to the man. "My name's John Watson, I'm a doctor." he assured when the man flinched under his touch. He had been bound with thin wire and John fumbled with tight knots for a few moments before he released the man's legs, and then his chest. He decided to let the man take the duct tape off himself, as he seemed hesitant to let John any nearer. Indeed, when he was free he shuffled backwards a bit before massaging his arms.

"What's your name?" John asked gently.

The man cleared his throat. "Jamie – Jamie Henderson." he croaked, his voice rough from disuse.

John raised his eyebrows. "You're–? What happened? Did someone kidnap you?" _Oh no, John, I'm sure he did this to himself_. Henderson nodded, unable to look John in the eye.

"V-Victor, he took me a-and kept me in here." _At a university_? John couldn't congratulate Victor on the place he'd decided to keep Henderson, but he supposed at least this explained the 'do not disturb' sign.

"When did he take you?" John held his hand out, gesturing for the man's arm, and reluctantly Henderson let him examine him.

"Five days ago." he said. And Gloria Scott was murdered four days ago. That ruled one suspect out, then. Though this kind of spotlighted another.

"And you've been here ever since?" Henderson nodded. "What about food? Water?" Henderson cleared his throat.

"Victor would... give me food. Bits of cereal bar, stuff like that. And he'd give me a bottle of water each day."

"Right." John breathed, and then pulled out his phone. "Well, Mr. Henderson, I'm going to call the police and get you to a hospital." He pressed Stanley Hopkins' contact, and waited for the dial tone.

"Thank you." Henderson breathed. "Thank you, really."

"Don't thank me, for God's sake. I was hardly going to leave–argh!" John was suddenly interrupted when he felt a blinding pain in his head and he fell forward, catching himself just before he hit the floor, dropping his phone. He turned onto his back and was only just able to block the paperweight that came speeding towards his face. John looked up into the eyes of his attacker and grunted when Victor Trevor pressed down hard on his leg.

He managed to swipe at Victor's feet with his free leg, and was successful in tripping him up. Swiftly, he rose to his feet and grabbed Victor by the shoulders, throwing him out of the cupboard.

"Stay here!" he told Henderson, who nodded frightfully and never took his eyes away from Victor.

John limped out of the cupboard just as Victor was getting up. His head was pounding constantly and he was beginning to feel dizzy, but he was determined to stay conscious and keep Victor away from Henderson.

Without a word Victor charged at him, and John caught his outstretched hands but Victor's momentum and his weakened leg meant that he was propelled backwards into the wall. He groaned when his head made contact and his brief lapse allowed Victor to throw him to the floor. He landed painfully and furiously blinked away black spots, trying to focus on the ceiling. Victor ambled back over, the square paperweight in his left hand.

"I don't want to do this, John." he panted. "But you were at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Come peacefully, Victor, please." John wheezed, "Injuring me isn't going to help your case."

Victor smiled coldly. "I don't plan on injuring you, John. You need to be removed, permanently."

"Don't," John started, but Victor didn't listen. He leapt forward just as the doctor rolled aside, and John rose to his knees and swiftly got to his feet, then elbowed Victor in the neck as the man was turning to face him. Victor choked and dropped the paperweight, his hands reaching for his neck as he wheezed for breath. John grabbed the back of his jacket and hauled him upright then pressed him against the wall, his face twisted to the side to avoid collision.

"Stop." John gasped. Victor growled and John felt him reach into his pocket and before he realised what had happened, the other man kicked at the doctor's weak leg and then spun to hit John again in the side of the head, though this time he was holding John's gun. The doctor just managed to avoid falling down, but by now he was having serious trouble concentrating. He was able to focus on his gun held in the wrong hands, and he knew then that if he didn't take action, Victor would try to shoot him. He also knew that Victor's attention was focused solely on him, so Henderson was safe as long as John retained that attention. Weaponless and with a gun being raised to him, he did the only thing he could think of.

He flung open the office door and ran as fast as his weakened leg would let him.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

The pain in his head was close to blinding him and his leg throbbed agonisingly with every step he took, but John resolutely ignored it and continued running as fast as he could. He knew Victor was following but he had a little bit of a head start. He weaved in and out of students and realised that if one of them saw Victor with a gun, everyone would go into a panic, and spooking Victor was the last thing they all needed. He quickly darted to the wall and elbowed the glass protecting a fire alarm, and then firmly pushed the button and kept running.

Loud sirens blared from speakers placed around the corridors and students filed out of lecture rooms and classes to get to a safety point. John belatedly realised that more students in his way might frustrate Victor and make him use the gun, but it was too late to do anything else and John could only hope the university evacuated quickly so there were no casualties. The students and staff were using all the emergency staircases, so John decided to run to the end of the corridor and use the main stairs, hoping that there would be less people there as it was far away. He could still here Victor behind him and was surprised he hadn't tried to fire his gun, but he supposed that maybe Victor wasn't confident he'd get John and he was sure that, somewhere deep, _deep_ down, Victor didn't want to see harm come to anyone else. At least, that was what John was banking on, so he continued weaving in and out of others, knowing it would be difficult for Victor to catch him.

He'd left his phone in Victor's office so there was no way to call the police, or Sherlock, for that matter. He had a few choice words to say to Sherlock about Victor, now he thought about it. Without his phone, though, he could only hope that Stanley Hopkins as well as other police officers was still within the university and he'd find them and let them take care of Victor.

Finally he reached a main staircase which was relatively empty, and he sprinted down the steps as quickly as possible, mentally cursing at each jolt of pain that ran through his leg and head. He could feel blood trickling down his face and some got into his eye, but he swiftly wiped it and focused on his surroundings and the sound of Victor behind him. Turning left once he'd reached the bottom of the stairs John continued to race down another corridor. He could tell he was beginning to limp, and he could only hope an exit would present itself soon. Or, preferably, the police would show themselves.

Suddenly, John felt a hand grip his arm and he was roughly yanked sideways into another room. His injured leg gave out and he stumbled but the hands held him up and forcefully straightened him. He was then spun around so that his back was to his assaulter's front and a hand clamped down over his mouth. John shouted behind the hand but he barely heard himself. He was dragged backwards as his attacker led him away from the door. He blinked rapidly to keep his vision clear and focused, intent on not letting his leg give out again. He reached for the hand silencing him, but his arms were then trapped too by ones just as strong and he was just getting ready to bite some fingers when the man behind him whispered to him.

"Stop it, John, and keep quiet." Relief poured through him at the sound of Sherlock's voice and he relaxed, feeling Sherlock let go of his arms and remove his hand. John turned to the detective and opened his mouth to speak, but the brunette returned his hand to his mouth. He raised his other hand to his own lips in the universal sign to keep silent and John nodded in understanding, thankful when Sherlock stepped away. The doctor looked around and noted where they were.

"Library?" he asked and Sherlock nodded before he gripped his wrist and continued to lead him deeper into the library. John was surprised to see no police milling about, especially as Hopkins had said he'd be here with others but he then remembered the fire alarm that was still ringing and doing wonders for his pounding headache, and came to the conclusion that the young constable must have evacuated along with everyone else.

As Sherlock led him and John limped behind, the doctor heard the opening and shutting of the main doors, and then the unmistakable sound of a lock being turned. A chill running down his spine, John noted that it was now him, Sherlock and most likely Victor alone in the library. He looked at Sherlock, but either the detective hadn't heard or was resolutely ignoring it. After a while the pair reached the top right corner of the enormous room and Sherlock pulled John down behind a table and chairs.

John winced when he crouched, so he settled for sitting against the bookshelf with his legs outstretched, glad to be able to take the weight off of his leg. Sherlock poked his head above the table and kept an eye out for Victor.

"John! Just come out and we can get this over with!" Victor called. "I don't want to hurt you more than necessary!"

"Well, at least he's not pulling the 'I only want to talk' trick." John whispered. Sherlock only nodded. John wiped at the blood on his brow, regretting it when a bolt of pain shot through him. He frowned at Sherlock.

"Hey, you okay?" he whispered again, knowing they both had to be as quiet as possible but still finding the detective's resolute silence odd.

"Fine." Sherlock whispered back curtly.

"I don't think he knows you're here," John continued faintly, "so that's something, isn't it?"

"Yes."

The doctor sighed and blinked slowly, still feeling like he was about to pass out any second. He looked down at his hands resting in his lap to try and ground himself but realised that he was swaying and leaning towards the left, heading straight for the floor whilst his vision deserted him. Sherlock abruptly gripped him tightly and John blinked again, clutching the detective's arms as he helped him upright.

"Sorry." John breathed.

"Don't apologise." Sherlock replied, and though his voice was quiet his tone was sharp. John decided it was best to keep quiet, sensing that Sherlock really wouldn't tolerate anything stupid or mundane that came out of his mouth. He merely nodded in return. The detective kept a grip on John as he looked around again.

"I should imagine that Victor is deep in the library now." he whispered, avoiding eye contact. "So, providing we are quick, we should be able to make it to the door without being noticed. Come on."

"My leg." John exhaled, gesturing to it weakly. "Sherlock, I won't be able to be quick."

"Ignore the pain, we must go now."

"Easy for you to say." John grumbled as he was reluctantly helped to his feet. "You haven't been hit in the head three times and had your leg stamped on." Sherlock bit his lip and began to walk away, and John raised his eyebrows before limping after him, fervently wishing his leg would stop hurting. He was certain that nothing was broken, though, which he supposed was something.

Suddenly John could hear pounding footsteps coming closer, and he knew that Victor had seen him. He swore and began to speed up, catching up with Sherlock. The brunette must have heard Victor too because he began to sprint, making it difficult for John to stay with him. The doctor chanced a glance behind him and noted that Victor was not yet directly behind them, though he could hear him somewhere off to his right. Sherlock was beginning to speed ahead and John knew he was heading towards the door. He also knew that Victor didn't yet know Sherlock was here, so he made an on-the-spot decision and veered right suddenly, rushing past numerous bookshelves and guaranteeing that Victor would spot him.

He was proved right when he heard the nearby footsteps stop suddenly and turn a different way, supposedly towards John now. He only hoped Sherlock didn't notice he was missing too soon so that he didn't get involved with whatever was most likely going to happen in the next five minutes.

"John?!" Sherlock's voice boomed around the library as he observed John's absence, and the doctor cursed when he heard Victor stop completely, obviously surprised to find that Sherlock was here as well. John stopped too and turned blindly, his breath catching when he saw Victor a few metres down the same aisle as him. though the other man hadn't seen him, too busy was he trying to place Sherlock.

John quickly darted down an adjacent aisle, preparing to take Victor by surprise. He himself, though, was taken by surprise when he collided with Victor, and he once again cursed his stupidity. John quickly grabbed Victor's extended arm and twisted it roughly, making the other man cry out. Victor didn't yield though, clearly remembering John's injured leg when he kicked out at it, causing John to let go and stumble backwards as the pain in his leg and head came back with a powerful vengeance. Victor grabbed him roughly and wrapped an arm around his neck, squeezing his windpipe tightly. A moment later John felt the cool barrel of his own gun press against the side of his head.

"Shit." he choked, closing his eyes and berating himself for being so bloody weak.

"I've had enough of you." Victor growled, panting heavily behind him. "You are going to get me out of here and then I'm going to dump your body in the river. Move." Victor nudged him forward and John began to limp, his head forced back in an attempt to breathe in more air. His lungs struggled for oxygen and he knew that if Victor didn't relent soon he was going to pass out. Providing he didn't pass out from the pain in his head.

They were almost at the main doors when Sherlock spoke from behind them.

"Victor, stop!" Victor spun and John stumbled to keep upright as he watched Sherlock edge nearer, his hands held out in a placating gesture.

"Sorry." John gasped, wincing when Victor moved them back away from Sherlock and nearer to the door. Sherlock looked like he wanted to reply to John but he kept his gaze firmly on Victor.

"Don't do this." he said, eyes almost pleading. "Come peacefully and the repercussions won't be as bad."

"No, I'm going to go." Victor said determinedly. "I'm going to take John with me, and if anyone tries to stop me – you included – I'll shoot him without a second thought."

"You killed Gloria Scott." Sherlock said quietly. "You can't expect to just go free. Even once you've... disposed of John, the police – and I – will still come after you."

"How did you find out?" Victor asked, ignoring Sherlock's threat. "That I killed her? You must've known before you came here."

Sherlock smiled sadly. "I found the murder weapon." He reached into his pocket and held out a bagged knife. "Hidden in your fridge."

"Why were you in my fridge?" Victor asked incredulously. Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I was peckish."

Despite the situation, John snorted and the detective's lips twitched. Victor tightened his arm around the doctor's neck and he gasped for air, causing Sherlock to sober quickly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"And it was you who killed Hank Beddoes fifteen years ago, not Jamie Henderson."

"Yeah." Victor said, and he almost sounded regretful. "It was an accident, though."

"Fell onto your knife?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, his eyes cold. As he spoke, he began to move forward and to the right, which in return made Victor move away from him and therefore away from the door.

"No, I – we'd had an argument, and it was bad enough that Beddoes pulled the knife on me." Victor shifted, briefly loosening his hold around John's neck, who gasped in fresh air. "I managed to get it off him, but he stumbled towards me just as I turned the blade towards him and... his momentum was so great that the knife became embedded in his stomach."

"So you framed Henderson for it? Why?" The detective continued to move, edging closer and closer to the door as Victor dragged John backwards, his eyes only for Sherlock.

"Well, you can probably remember, Sherlock, but those two had always been at each other's throats and I knew as soon as Beddoes' body was found Henderson would be the top suspect..."

"So you planted the knife in his room, waiting for someone to find it."

"Yes." Victor said quietly.

"And now Gloria Scott's death, was that related to Beddoes'?"

Victor nodded. "Henderson somehow found out I'd killed Hank, and shortly after prison he sent a letter to Gloria telling her so. He'd said he was going to come back to Cambridge and explain in person, and then he'd call the police on me. I found the letter the day Henderson came to Cambridge and Gloria saw me reading it and decided to confront me here in the library. Things got out of hand, she started yelling and threatening me and I... I don't know what came over me but I attacked her..." His voice trailed off quietly, but neither John nor Sherlock held any sympathy towards him.

"The knife had been kept by the police after Beddoes' murder." Sherlock continued. "So you – then working as a police desk sergeant – broke into the evidence locker and stole it?"

Victor nodded.

"Why?"

"Because..." he sighed. "I was paranoid that Henderson would somehow break out of prison to come after me, so I took it and kept it as protection." John frowned.

"You couldn't have found another, easier to acquire, weapon?" he rasped, and Victor shook his head.

"I don't know what I was thinking. I just remember being in the evidence locker and seeing the knife and just thinking that this was the perfect opportunity to take it. I quit my job shortly after." Sherlock was now watching him with a stormy expression, and John tried to catch his eye and mentally tell him to calm down.

"So Henderson," John said. "You kidnapped him a few days ago?"

"Yes," Victor said. "I tracked him to his home and knocked him out to keep him quiet. I decided to keep him in my office because there's a policy that nobody goes into a member of staff's cupboard without express permission, so I thought it would be the perfect place."

"But in the middle of a police investigation?" John asked in disbelief. "You really didn't think it through, did you?"

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say, and John regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. Victor's hold tightened considerably and the doctor grunted, trying to take in as much oxygen as he could.

"I am aware," Victor growled into his ear. "That I haven't made the best choices. But perhaps you have forgotten that your gun is currently pressed to your head."

"Haven't forgotten." John choked, certain that his face must be going red.

"Stop it." Sherlock's said dangerously, his tone as cold as ice. Victor loosened his grip minutely, but it was enough to let John take in gulps of air. Victor, meanwhile, was looking at Sherlock just as stonily.

"Move out of the way of the door." he said quietly, having noticed that they'd swapped places; Sherlock was barricading the exit and Victor with John was stood opposite him.

"I can't let you go." Sherlock said determinedly. "You are a murderer and you will go to jail."

"Do you think I won't shoot him?" Victor asked, nudging John with the muzzle of the gun and causing a spike of pain to erupt in the doctor's head. He winced but tried to maintain eye contact with Sherlock, mentally telling him he didn't need to worry.

"If I gave into every person who threatened John there would be a dramatic increase in the number of criminals roaming the streets." Sherlock replied icily. "They've all been wise enough to know that they would meet an undesirable demise if any harm came to him, and I can already see blood on his face."

"When did you become so attached to others?" Victor spat, turning spiteful. "I remember when you preferred to be alone and isolated, when you'd rather focus on improving your intellect than flitting about other people."

"Attached?" Sherlock laughed. "And what about you? What about these last few days, where you've tried to spend every waking hour with me. Wouldn't you call that flitting?" John could have sworn Victor was shaking with suppressed anger and he tried once again to get Sherlock's attention, to tell him not antagonise the man holding him in a choke hold.

"Don't." Victor warned lowly, but Sherlock seemed to ignore him. "You've been clingy, Victor." he mocked. "Desperate to get my attention, to be wanted."

"Sherlock." John gasped, suddenly having to fight for air.

"But I thought I made my opinion on that very clear fifteen years ago." Sherlock growled, eyes flashing. "No."

"No!" Victor roared in response and without any warning, pressed the muzzle of John's gun harder into the doctor's head. He ignored Sherlock's panicked shout and pulled the trigger.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock saw John slump just as the doors behind him burst open and a troop of police rushed in, headed by Stanley Hopkins. Some officers ran to Victor, who was staring at John's gun in disbelief, and they promptly arrested him, dragging him out of the library and away from the prone figure of John.

Sherlock felt his feet moving towards his friend and he was certain that his heart had stopped but he kept going, watching Hopkins kneel next to John and roll him on his back. The detective finally reached him and he felt another jolt of shock pass through him when John opened his eyes.

"What?" Was all he could say as he quickly bent down and helped John to a sitting position. He crouched in front of the doctor and waited for him to explain what had just happened.

"The gun was empty." John murmured, his eyes closed. "No bullets."

"No..." And now that Sherlock thought about it, the gun never actually went off. There was no loud bang, only a quiet _click_, which must have been why Victor then stared at the gun disbelievingly.

"You're not dead." Sherlock stated dumbly, though it came out as more of a question.

"Not dead. Are you alright, though?" John cracked open his eyes to study the detective. "I think you're in shock."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock replied, straightening his feet and offering his hand to John, who took it and got up slowly, mindful of the pounding in his head and the pain in his leg. Stanley Hopkins ambled over, having waited for a lull in the conversation.

"Dr. Watson, can I give you a lift to the hospital? I mean, I'll need you two to come to the station for statements, but you look like you're about to pass out." John shook his head, then winced afterwards.

"I'm fine." he insisted.

Knowing Hopkins was about to persist, Sherlock turned to the young constable.

"Outstanding work today, Hopkins." he praised. Hopkins brightened as he looked up at Sherlock.

"Really?" he asked.

"Of course." Sherlock responded. "Your quick thinking saved John and myself. How did you know we were here?" he asked, though he'd already worked out the answer.

"Uh, well Dr. Watson phoned me earlier and I answered it, but he wasn't speaking so I kept listening. I could hear some fighting–"

"You and Victor?" Sherlock asked John.

"Me and Victor." The doctor confirmed, his eyes closed again. Sherlock motioned for Hopkins to continue.

"Yeah, and I knew then that you, Dr Watson, must have been in trouble and that was why you phoned me. I remember you told me you were going to Mr. Trevor's office so I headed up there, only when I was half way up the stairs the fire alarm went off and I got kinda crowded."

"That was me." John breathed. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Hopkins said. "But when I finally got to Mr. Trevor's office you weren't there. And that was when I saw Jamie Henderson."

"Whom Victor had kidnapped?" Sherlock clarified, and John nodded.

"He explained what had happened in the office and that you'd led Mr. Trevor away. I figured that you must have been trying to get him to where I'd be with the police, and you knew I was in the library. Am I right so far?" John nodded again. "Right, so my colleagues hadn't arrived when we'd both arrived but they were there by the time I ran back downstairs with Henderson. They looked a little concerned, seeing as they thought the building was on fire but I quickly gave them an explanation, handed Henderson over to another officer, took the rest with me and stormed the library." he finished with a flourish. John smiled and Sherlock linked his hands behind his back, looking vaguely proud.

"Well done, constable, I'm sure your boss will be pleased." the detective said, and Hopkins blushed.

"T-Thank you, but will you both come to the station? I really do need statements." he asked them both hopefully. Sherlock noticed John look down at his watch and bite his lip, but then the doctor sighed and looked across to Hopkins.

"'Course we'll come." he said quietly, and the young constable quirked a smile in relief. He led them out of the university and Sherlock noticed it was beginning to get dark and realised that he hadn't eaten all day. Not that it was a rare occurrence, but if John found out he'd force food down the brunette's throat regardless of the time of day.

The pair got into the back of Hopkins' car and spent the short trip to the police station in silence. When they reached their destination they were taken into separate rooms to be questioned and write down their statements. Hopkins sat with Sherlock whilst another officer went with John. The whole process was agonisingly slow. Hopkins was almost as meticulous in detail as Sherlock was and seemed to want to go over every little thing that had happened in the past few days. The constable had managed to work out that it had been Victor who'd knocked Sherlock out when they'd visited Henderson's residence and Sherlock confirmed this. They spent about an hour going over Hank Beddoes' murder fifteen years ago, and then another hour was given for Gloria Scott's murder. After that, Hopkins wanted an intricate account of the confrontation in the library, and Sherlock wondered if John was having as much fun as he was. Hopkins did raise a valid point during one moment, though, when he asked why John's gun had been empty, and Sherlock had been unable to answer, realising that he himself did not know.

By the time Hopkins finally let him out of the interview room – during which time Sherlock was beginning to think about threatening the man – it had gone half nine and he admitted to himself he could do with a few hours' sleep. He was certain that the rest of the police station was near deserted and when he reached the main entrance he noted that there wasn't even a desk sergeant present. The waiting area with its dozen plastic chairs was empty as well apart from one person.

John was stretched horizontally across two chairs, his legs curled and a worn blanket placed over his sleeping form. Sherlock concluded that he must have been waiting for him to finish being interviewed, and during his wait he'd fallen asleep. The wound on his head was prominent in the low light, but it was clear that it had been cleaned recently. The doctor's forehead was creased in pain and Sherlock wondered whether it was his leg or head which was hurting more.

Altogether he looked a pitiful sight and Sherlock really didn't want to wake him, knowing how much difficulty John had had getting sleep recently. He figured remaining here for another hour or so would do no harm, though John may have a sore back to deal with later on. Awkwardly, Sherlock perched on a chair next to John's head and folded his hands in his lap, looking about the waiting room with faked interest.

"What're you doing?" John's quiet voice made Sherlock jump, and he looked down to see the doctor watching him with a faintly amused expression.

"I was waiting for you." the detective replied airily, and John smiled slightly.

"Well cheers but next time just wake me." John said as he sat up with a groan, rubbing his head, though he avoided his wound. Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at his lap.

"I forgot to ask earlier if you were alright–"

"I'm fine, Sherlock." John said gently.

"You said you were hit in the head three times, and it's clear your leg is troubling you."

"Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure you don't need to visit the hospital?"

"I'm sure." John said resolutely, but then he squinted at his watch. "Actually... how long would it take to get to the train station?" Sherlock frowned but calculated it anyhow.

"Approximately an hour and a half."

"Taking us to eleven." John sighed, disappointed.

"Why do you need to–oh," Sherlock finally understood. "The funeral's tomorrow morning."

"Yeah." John said, his head bowed.

"And the last train was half an hour ago."

"Right. It didn't seem like it was going to happen, but I wasn't sure..." he trailed off.

The detective watched John intently. "I'm... sorry." he said, not entirely sure what he was expected to say.

John smiled slightly. "I wasn't expecting you to apologise." he said.

"Oh." Sherlock replied, and the two descended into silence, neither of them suggesting they should leave the desolate waiting area. The brunette looked down at his lap and fiddled with his fingers, silently waiting for John to tell him what to do now. "I should, though." he said finally. "Apologise."

The doctor frowned. "What for?" he asked, glancing across to him.

"For my behaviour towards you today. I was rude and treated you unfairly, and I should have taken your suspicions regarding Victor seriously – especially as they turned out to be correct." he sighed and met John's eyes. "I suppose I didn't want to consider the fact that Victor could be a murderer."

John nodded in understanding. "I get that." he said. "But you don't need to be sorry. I think that having known Victor the way you do, it would sound ridiculous when I suggested the possibility of him being involved in Gloria Scott's death." Sherlock didn't reply, and John looked about the room. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"You've asked me that already." the detective retorted.

"And you brushed me off." John responded swiftly. "Seriously, I need to be sure you're not going to have a breakdown or something."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I think Victor's involvement was completely unexpected for you, and I know how much a shock like that can affect someone, and seeing as you are remarkably good at hiding your emotions I wouldn't have any clue that you were affected so I need your reassurance that you really are okay." Sherlock didn't answer him and John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face wearily.

"Why were there no bullets in your gun?" the detective asked quietly. John dropped his hand.

"Because I'd emptied it last night." he replied edgily. Sherlock frowned.

"So you deliberately took an empty gun with you today?"

The doctor rolled his eyes. "No, I forgot there were no bullets, though it's a good thing I did forget, isn't it?" Sherlock hummed in agreement before asking his next question.

"Why did you empty it last night?"

"Why do you want to know?" John asked defensively.

"I'm curious." Sherlock shrugged.

John shook his head slightly and then looked back down at his lap. "I emptied it because I didn't want to do anything... stupid."

"Didn't want to do anything stupid." Sherlock repeated to himself softly. "Is it really that bad?"

John tipped his head as if considering. "Sometimes. Things just... get to me occasionally."

"Mary..." Sherlock trailed off, thinking that he probably didn't need to say that out loud. John didn't say anything. "Why didn't you say something, John?" he asked softly, trying not to let his frustration show. Frustration at John for hiding his struggles and frustration at himself for not noticing John's torment.

"You were caught up in this case and everything that went with it, and I didn't want to distract you from it."

The detective sighed. "One of these days I am going to strangle you, John Watson." he ground out, and John looked up at him in surprise.

"I think it's the other way round." the doctor replied. "Why say that?"

"Because you seem to think that your sufferings are insignificant." Sherlock snapped, before taking a deep breath to calm down. "It's infuriating." he muttered.

"Sorry." John replied, not sure what else he could say.

"No, don't apologise." Sherlock sighed.

"Right." Sherlock could still hear the apology in that one word.

"You're doing it deliberately now." he muttered. John smiled and wearily got to his feet, swaying slightly.

"I think we should get back to the hotel and sleep. I've got to leave at half eight to get to the train station–"

"We've got to leave at half eight." Sherlock interrupted.

"Right." John repeated with another smile. "Coming?"

Sherlock got up and the two exited the police station and hailed a cab. When they arrived at the hotel Sherlock made sure John climbed the stairs ahead of him so that he could monitor the doctor's steadiness and ensure he didn't collapse. It was slow going, with John gripping tightly to the banister to remain upright and stopping sometimes to stop the dizziness, but eventually they made it to their separate rooms. Sherlock paused outside his door.

"Give me your room key." he said.

"Beg your pardon?" John asked with a frown, turning towards him and subtly leaning against the door to reduce the weight on his leg.

"You have a concussion." he stated. "So give me your key so that I can wake you every two hours."

John shook his head. "You need to sleep." he argued.

"I can sleep on the train tomorrow." Sherlock responded swiftly.

"You're only going to wake everyone else if you keep traipsing from room to room."

The brunette sighed. "Then I will remain in your room."

"No." John said bluntly.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, acting more offended then he actually was.

"Because if you're not planning on sleeping you're going to be making too much noise and I would like a decent night's sleep for once." he said, and Sherlock could detect the exhaustion in his tone.

"I will do nothing of the sort." Sherlock swore. John considered it for a few moments and then he sighed and opened the door to his room.

"Fine." he called, and Sherlock nodded to himself. He gave John fifteen minutes to prepare for bed and then he knocked quietly, knowing that the doctor would scold him if he was too loud. John opened the door dressed in his pyjamas and looking even more tired, and Sherlock followed him in. The detective halted in his tracks when he saw the sofa on the other side of the room had a white duvet and pillow placed atop it, and he looked to John for an explanation.

"I know we have to wake every two hours, but you can still get some rest between that time." John said. "I'm happy to take the sofa if you want something more comfy, but either way you are getting some rest."

"No, it's fine." Sherlock said, moving to perch on the sofa, drawing the duvet over his lap as John climbed into the bed.

"Sleep." he heard John say and he smiled as he reclined back on the couch. He set an alarm on his phone to wake him in two hours before placing the phone on the floor near him.

"I'm trying, but you keep talking." he replied and John chuckled in response.

"I'll shut up then, shall I?" John said, his voice drowsy.

"That would be greatly appreciated."

"Git." John murmured.

"Idiot." Sherlock responded but there was no reply, only the sound of John's deep breathing.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

"How's he holding up?"

Greg Lestrade sat down next to Sherlock on the bench and the two watched the distant figure of John, who was stood over a grave and talking quietly. Greg was dressed in a black suit and tie, and he had been the only one who'd remained to wait for Sherlock and John when they got off their train.

The funeral had finished around twenty minutes ago, and not even Mycroft's fast car was able to get them to the cemetery in time. Instead, they'd been met by Greg, who'd clapped John on the back and spoken to him for a bit whilst Sherlock found somewhere to sit. John had been stood in front of Mary's and his daughter's grave for around two minutes and Greg had gone to take a phone call that had interrupted their conversation.

"Difficult to say." Sherlock replied and Greg nodded.

"I can imagine. He's always bottling things up and keeping quiet. What was he like in Cambridge?"

Sherlock considered for a moment. "Reserved." he decided upon. "He attempted to make out as if nothing was bothering him."

"I heard what happened." Greg said, looking across to Sherlock. "With Victor Trevor and all that. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock muttered, his eyes still on John.

"Well, what with Victor nearly shooting John, I would guess that that wasn't something you're best pleased about."

"You don't say." Sherlock commented dryly.

"I mean it must have been difficult seeing a past friend try to kill your current friend." Greg amended. "I just wanted to make sure you were handling it."

"Well you need not worry." Sherlock said. "I am handling it."

"As well as John is?"

"There's nothing to handle, anyway." he continued defiantly.

"Alright." Greg surrendered.

"I'm fine." Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock, I said alright." the DI said, a small frown forming. "But you're not really persuading me when you repeat that."

Sherlock chose not to comment. He crossed his arms instead.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'm going." he said as he got to his feet. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

The detective ignored him.

"Yes, Lestrade, I've no doubt I will see you again. Thank you ever so much for checking on me and John. There's really nothing I can do to show how much I appreciate it. Farewell, good friend." Greg muttered to himself in a deep voice meant to imitate Sherlock as he walked off, hands stuffed in his pocket. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

He watched as John turned away from the grave and began to trek back to the bench Sherlock was perched on. When he got there he sat down with a sigh and the two remained silent for a few moments. Sherlock wondered what was going through John's head, and whether he was angry they'd missed the funeral. His shoulders were tense but that could be for any number of reasons, the main one obviously being that he'd just seen his wife and daughter's grave.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked quietly, and John huffed out a laugh and looked down at his lap.

"Stupid question?" the detective queried, knowing it was but not knowing what else to say.

"Kind of, yeah." John replied.

"Apologies."

"Don't worry," John said with a small smile. "I get that this isn't really your area – it's not really anyone's, to be honest. Thanks for asking, though."

Sherlock nodded in response.

"Greg said the funeral was nice." the doctor continued. "Quiet."

"Are you angry we missed it?" Sherlock asked.

"Not angry." John replied, "Just a bit... disappointed, I guess, that I didn't see their send off, you know? But you know what they say; funerals are for the living and all that."

"Who says that?" Sherlock frowned.

John shrugged. "I dunno, people. Does it matter?"

"Seems a peculiar statement to make."

John laughed. "I'll find the source for you, if you're that interested."

"There is truth to it, though, I suppose."

John hummed in agreement and the two lapsed into silence again.

After a few minutes John looked across to Sherlock. "Are _you_ alright?"

"Have you been speaking to Lestrade?" The detective asked, huffing petulantly.

John frowned. "Uh – briefly, earlier. Why?"

"He asked the same question." Sherlock said grumpily.

"Oh." John smiled. "Tired of hearing that?"

"Extremely." Sherlock replied with a sigh.

"Me too. Shall we flee the country to escape everyone?"

Sherlock sat up straighter. "Mycroft can get us tickets within the hour. Where do you want to go?"

John smiled and tilted his head. "Somewhere warm. Spain, maybe?"

"Listed 9th as the country with the highest crime rate, so I will not be bored there. Good choice, John, if we leave now we can be packed and at the airport within forty minutes–"

"I was joking, Sherlock." John chuckled.

Sherlock frowned and cleared his throat, looking away. "Yes, so was I." he said indifferently, which prompted another laugh from the doctor.

His laughter soon died down until he was just smiling. "Maybe one day, Sherlock." he said.

The detective still looked disappointed and he continued to look away. "The majority of Spain's population is over-friendly anyhow, so the crime rate would have increased even more because of me. It's for the best." he sniffed.

John chuckled again as he got to his feet. "You keep telling yourself that. C'mon, let's go get some..." he glanced down at his watch. "brunch. You look hungry."

"I'm not." Sherlock said, but he got to his feet anyway as John began to walk off towards the street.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. "John." he called and the doctor stopped and turned back to him.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Will you return to Baker Street?"

John became serious and he sighed heavily. "Sherlock..." He gestured helplessly about him in a what-do-you-want-me-to-say motion.

"I'm not sure you should be on your own." Sherlock blurted, and winced when John's face turned stony.

"Right." John muttered, clenching his fist.

"I was merely suggesting–"

"No, I–" The doctor coughed and shook his head slightly. "I'll think about it, alright? I'll think about it." he said again, more to himself.

"Alright." Sherlock said quietly.

John shifted, looking a little distressed. "I don't know – I mean, I don't know how to – what to do... at the minute. I can't–"

"Come back to Baker Street." Sherlock said firmly. "Just for tonight. We can work out what you want to do tomorrow. Right now, you are going to buy me brunch and then we'll visit Molly at the morgue because she's promised me a cadaver."

"Why am I buying brunch?" John asked, a slight smile forming.

"Because you're not taking me to Spain." Sherlock retorted.

"I thought _you _were taking me to Spain."

"It was your idea."

"You were the one moaning about people being concerned."

"So you should treat me to cheer me up. Isn't that what friends do?" he asked, eliciting a small chuckle from John. "And anyway, it was Mycroft who was going to buy the tickets."

"We'll have to send him flowers, as a thank you." John said seriously, fighting a smile.

Sherlock sighed. "As long as they're dead." he said, walking past John, who quickly caught up with him. The two reached the road and Sherlock hailed them a cab. John directed the cabbie to a café nearby whilst Sherlock texted Molly, telling her they'd be at Bart's in an hour.

During the journey, John looked across at Sherlock. "Are you alright, though? Honestly?

"There's nothing not to be alright about, John." Sherlock snapped. He sighed, regretting his harsh tone. John merely shrugged.

"Just checking. But you tell me if anything's getting at you, yeah?"

"Now you definitely owe me a trip to Spain." Sherlock grumbled.

"Fine." John smiled.

Sherlock glanced across to the doctor. "And the same goes for you, John." he said hesitantly. "If there is an issue you cannot deal with alone, you know I will–"

"I know." John interrupted him softly, saving him from getting sentimental. "Thank you."

"Likewise." Sherlock said shortly, awkwardly.

More silence dominated the cab until John smiled again. "Do you really want to go to Spain?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've not had many cases abroad, so it would be interesting to note the differences to investigating here."

"I'll get Mycroft to contact the Spanish police, shall I? See if there's a murder they can't solve?"

"Would you?" the detective asked eagerly, still not realising that John was joking.

John looked at him, astonished, before he huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Sure. I'll do it tomorrow since I'm not doing anything, yeah?"

Sherlock bit his lip, containing his grin. "Yeah." he said.

END

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has favourite/followed/reviewed, they've all made me very happy and I hope you've enjoyed this story x**


End file.
